Lies That Blind

by Tony Hutchinson

  ‘Well we don’t know that. We haven’t got an intercept on it, but she’s rang him.’

  Priest wheeled his chair away from the desk, remained seated.

  ‘What you’re saying is that Sam Parker’s job phone–’

  ‘Not her job phone. A personal number.’

  ‘Okay, so we’ve got a phone registered to Sam Parker that calls Whelan’s number, but no idea who made or who received the call.’

  Appleton said nothing.

  ‘Not much is it. You’ll need to dig deeper than that.’

  ‘I’ll dig to Australia if I have to.’

  Priest walked to the metal filing cabinet, opened the top drawer and retrieved a manila folder. He stared at the wall as he spoke, his back to Appleton.

  ‘Look just leave it for a while. Let the dust settle. And never, ever underestimate either of those two. They’ll chew you up and spit you out.’

  ‘He’s bent and she’s protecting him,’ Appleton spat out the words. ‘Shagging him if the rumours are right.’

  Priest spun round, words matching the speed of the turn.

  ‘Don’t make this personal and don’t listen to tittle-tattle. Nobody was ever convicted on tittle-tattle.’

  Priest put his hands on his hips.

  ‘Do you seriously think they’d use their own phones if they were up to no good? So back off and don’t end up looking a tit.’

  Josh Appleton skulked out of the office.

  A uniform officer all his life he had been in Professional Standards for six months. He saw the posting as short term, a CV builder, but if he could sort out Whelan and maybe even throw a bit of collateral damage Parker’s way, he would finally get noticed.

  Priest could go fuck himself.

  Mick Wright, his sergeant when he first joined, had become a friend and they regularly went out for a beer. When the pints made way for whisky, talk always turned to their mutual hatred of detectives.

  Maybe he could do Mick a favour and stitch these two up good and proper. Whelan was as bent as they come and Parker had looked after him for years.

  Priest might be willing to let the dust settle but he wasn’t.

  He hurried out of the office, climbed into his car and raced to Brian Banks’ yard.

  Banks stood amongst mountains of scrap, hands thrust in his tweed trouser pockets, taut red braces stretched over his barrel chest, a chest which looked like he spent hours bench pressing and drinking whey protein.

  Seaton St George’s very own Iron Man, although not many would class Brian Banks as a superhero.

  He didn’t wait for an introduction.

  ‘What do you a want?’

  Even in his atrocious clothes, Appleton didn’t look like he was weighing in scrap metal.

  ‘A word.’

  ‘And you are?’

  ‘Detective Inspector Josh Appleton. Professional Standards.’

  Appleton extended his hand; Banks kept his in his pockets.

  ‘Well I’ve got fuck all to say to you,’ Banks said. ‘Goodbye.’

  ‘You won’t be able to protect your mate forever,’ Appleton fired back. ‘You might have him in your pocket but you haven’t got me.’

  Banks stepped forward until his chest was inches from Appleton’s.

  ‘Listen you snotty nosed little twat, I don’t have mates in the police and I’ve got nothing to say to the likes of you, so fuck off before I take my hands out of my pockets and lose my temper.’

  Appleton, small in stature, big in self-importance, wasn’t ready to retreat.

  ‘What exactly is your relationship with Ed Whelan?’

  Banks’ right hand shot out of his pocket, grabbed the vile patterned tie and yanked Appleton closer, the Windsor knot shrinking as it tightened.

  Banks’ breath warmed his ear.

  ‘You’re on private property. If you’ve got a search warrant, show it. If you haven’t, walk away before I put my boot up your fuckin’ arse.’

  Appleton slinked to the gates before turning around. ‘I’ll be back and you’ll be in the cell next to Whelan.’

  ‘Good luck with that you fuckin’ knob. When you come back, bring some proper policemen with you. Ones I’ll go quietly with.’

  Banks watched him drive away before making a call on his mobile.

  ‘Ed? Banksy. Some snotty-nosed twat just turned up asking questions about you. I put a flea in his ear and sent him packing.’

  Brian Banks listened then said, ‘Apple something or other. Right cock.’

  Chapter 43

  Sam called a briefing for 4pm.

  The room, full when she walked in, hushed as she approached the chair at the front.

  ‘Okay, let’s see where we are. Zac Williams’ computer? What’s on it?’

  ‘Not a lot,’ said an officer at the back of the room. ‘Looks like it’s used for video games, porn and some social media. Mainstream porn sites, nothing illegal. Has Facebook, no Twitter, no Instagram. Doesn’t post much. Nothing of interest to us.’

  ‘Newspaper research?’ Sam asked.

  ‘Nothing. Search history is all around You Tube, porn and daft videos. There is nothing on the computer to suggest what he was going to do: no violent posts, no posts about suicide, nothing remotely resembling ‘I Don’t Like Mondays.’

  There were a few smiles, a couple of chuckles.

  The Boomtown Rats recorded the track, a big hit, after Brenda Spencer opened fire on Cleveland Elementary School, San Diego, in 1979.

  ‘Okay lose the wisecracks,’ Sam said. ‘I get the analogy but it’s not exactly appropriate. Comparisons like that get out and the next thing we’re heartless bastards making insensitive remarks about mass shootings.’

  She didn’t need to repeat the warning.

  ‘Anything from the helicopter feed?’

  ‘Nothing new,’ came another voice from the back of the room.

  ‘Victims of the shooter?’

  This time the Family Liaison Coordinator spoke. ‘The teams are still out and about but I’ve got verbal updates off them.

  ‘Great. Let’s hear them then.’

  ‘Okay. I’ll just go in the order the teams rang in.’

  He glanced at his notepad.

  ‘Joey Sanderson. Just walking home. Family don’t think he knows anybody in that street, but by their own admission anything’s possible with Fatty. They don’t think he knew Tara Paxman or Zac Williams or Lucy Spragg. Looks like wrong place, wrong time.’

  ‘That’s what we’ve got boss,’ Ranjit Singh, from the Intelligence Unit, joined in. ‘No intelligence at all to suggest Sanderson knew anybody involved.’

  ‘Okay,’ Sam said. ‘Next?’

  The coordinator spoke again. ‘Marcus. Mother, Pippa, well- spoken, expensively dressed, no time for Lucy. Calls her…’

  He paused, glanced at his notepad. ‘No good trailer trash –’

  ‘Charming,’ Sam interrupted. ‘What does she do for a living?’

  ‘Marcus’s mam?’ asked the coordinator.

  Sam nodded.

  ‘Nothing. Stays at the family smallholding all day. Husband’s in property. She drinks gin and watches American TV all day. Stated Lucy Spragg was trying to move up the social ladder, trapping Marcus by dragging him up the aisle by his…’

  Everyone in the room waited, knowing the gist of what was going to be said, but intrigued how Pippa Worthington-Hotspur would describe it to a police officer.

  ‘…his overactive love stick.’

  The room burst into fits.

  Sam wondered what Ed would have said, wondered how a 1980s CID briefing would have responded to ‘love stick.’ She had a good idea.

  When it quietened down the coordinator continued.

  ‘His mother said he got a text and flew out of the house.’

  ‘That’ll be the one from Lucy,’ Ranjit Singh again. ‘The message read…’

  He flicked through his A4 hardbacked book, found the page he needed.

  ‘Please, please I ne
ed to see you. I can’t discuss it on the phone. It’s really important. Please I’m begging you. Come as soon as you get this.’

  ‘So,’ Sam said, ‘Marcus responded to a message from Lucy’s phone, not necessarily a message from Lucy herself.’

  Sam paused. The room fell silent.

  ‘How much longer are you going to be in there with the forensics Julie?’

  ‘Probably another two days.’

  ‘Any sign of Zac’s phone?’

  ‘None. I know you’ll want to get the search team in after we’ve finished, but we’ve not found it.’

  Sam looked at Sergeant Ian Robinson. ‘While you’re waiting for access to the house, and while you’re doing the house-to-house, get some of your team to search the bins, rooftops and drains in the street. We need to find that phone.’

  Ian Robinson made a note in his pocket book.

  ‘I wish I could open up a new box for you,’ Sam said.

  Ian smiled, nodded.

  ‘Bear in mind,’ Sam continued, ‘we had the place cordoned off, so the first place to look is in the street itself. Start off at Zac’s, then do Tara’s.’

  Sam looked at the coordinator. ‘Sorry, carry on.’

  ‘Lucy Spragg’s mother’s devastated. She hoped Lucy was going to leave Zac. Says she met Marcus once. Describes him as a nice lad. Liked him.’

  ‘A bit more charitable than Pippa then,’ Sam said.

  ‘Jean Spragg always thought Zac was violent and that Lucy was on the receiving end. She knew about two police visits in the last six months for DV.’

  She glared at the coordinator.

  ‘It’s not called domestic violence these days.’

  The coordinator blushed. ‘Sorry boss.’

  Old habits die hard and it had been called DV for years. Everyone in the room felt for him. It was a full-time job keeping up with the ever-changing language.

  Ranjit Singh confirmed police had attended fifteen times in response to reports of domestic abuse in the last twelve months but, as Jean said, only two in the last six.’

  ‘Interesting,’ Sam said. ‘Is that because she’s not bothering to report or he’s changed his behavior? Anyway, carry on.’

  ‘Moving onto Paul,’ the coordinator said.

  He didn’t tell Sam anything she didn’t already know. She knew plenty he didn’t.

  The search team informed her that house-to-house had not found anyone who had seen or heard anything suspicious.

  All the phones in the office were off the hook with the exception of one. That one rang.

  ‘Boss. Lester Stephenson is downstairs.’

  ‘Interesting,’ Sam said. ‘Anything else? Fingertip search around Marshall and Swan’s car.’

  Ian Robinson spoke again. ‘There’s a SIM card in the bushes near the car.’

  ‘Let’s see what we can get off that then.’

  ‘It’s in pieces. Been cut up.’

  Ed drove Doris over the moors to Helmsley, the only market town in the North Yorkshire Moors National Park, parked in the square and walked into The Feathers.

  Nursing a pint of craft ale in the Pickwick Bar he scrolled through his phone.

  His suspension had already made the local newspaper’s website. Whilst Eastern Police declined to comment on the identity of the suspended officer, the Seaton Post reported that ‘sources’ believed it to be Detective Sergeant Edward Whelan.

  The story had caused two reactions.

  Firstly, he had thirteen missed calls from Sue, three from players in the local football team and two from Darius Simpson at the Seaton Post.

  The only calls he’d answered were from Sam and Brian Banks.

  Secondly, the newspaper had trawled through the archives and dug up the court reports from the three officers who were convicted of corruption in the late eighties.

  Whilst that story wasn’t directly linked to him, it alluded to the fact that this latest suspended officer worked with the convicted three.

  Under the headline, ‘The Seaton Three: Eastern Police’s Darkest Day’, three black and white passport-style photographs stared back at him: no smiles, wide shouldered double-breasted pinstripe suits, permed hair.

  Ed hadn’t seen them for years. One was dead, two used their criminal connections on their release to move out to Tenerife where they made a killing in the unregulated Timeshare holiday boom. As far as he knew they were still there.

  Ed stared back at them – different era, different job.

  In 1981 he was the new detective joining an established team. The Detective Sergeant nearing retirement took scant interest in their work, preferring to be at his desk by 8am, in the pub by 11am and home by 5pm. As long as arrests were being made, crimes cleared up, he didn’t question the methods.

  For a while Ed was the youngster of the group, but they had all been inseparable: worked hard, played harder.

  It was a time when food – burgers and chips had replaced chicken in a basket – was still served in some nightclubs, armed robberies on security vans were regular and drugs mostly limited to a few would-be hippies and their cannabis haunts.

  That was all about to change. Ecstasy would soon hit the UK, demand for cocaine and heroin would soon soar.

  Ed saw the new world take shape as career criminals saw a new opportunity. No longer did they need to risk ten years or more in jail for toting a sawn-off shotgun, staging ski-masked hold ups at village post offices and Securicor vans.

  Instead they could import and sell drugs on a huge scale with so many layers of criminality beneath them their chances of being convicted fell dramatically.

  But like every business, and to them it was a business, averting risk was a vital. Paying police officers for information was a key component of their strategy. And there were corrupt police officers prepared to get their hands dirty in exchange for cold cash.

  Ed looked up from his phone, glanced at an elderly couple in matching tweeds order a pint and a gin and tonic, then stared at the carved mouse on the stool opposite.

  His mind drifted back to the custody office of the early 1980s; charge office as it was known then. A time before computers, when A3 detention sheets were handwritten, yellow sheets before charge, white after charge.

  A time before the Police and Criminal Evidence Act, DNA and mobile phones.

  He vividly recalled hearing a uniform sergeant, a known Freemason, talking to one of the three during an argument over the detention of a prisoner. ‘Watch your back,’ the sergeant had warned. ‘I know people in high places.’

  Ed smiled at the memory of the nose to nose reply: ‘I know plenty in low places and they’ll cause more fucking damage than your friends in high places could dream of.’

  By the late eighties he was still considered one of the youngest detectives in the office. Complaints and Discipline concentrated a lot of their efforts on him and the even younger DC Chris Priest; their interview strategy consisting of nothing more than a simple but effective tactic… ‘break the weak links’.

  The interviews weren’t taped, weren’t conducted in the spirit of the relatively recent Police and Criminal Evidence Act, and at times were overtly oppressive.

  Ed maintained his innocence and all evidence of dirty money pointed towards the ‘Seaton Three’, not to him.

  They were all living way beyond what they earned from The Job.

  Ed’s situation was different. Sue came from a wealthy family and his comfortable lifestyle dovetailed with the world of successful self-made business people.

  When Complaints came for him, he gave them the same line throughout the interviews: why would he risk jail for a couple of grand here, a couple of grand there?

  At a time when the pay rise between Chief Inspector and Superintendent was about £5000 a year, Ed’s answer was petrol to the fire.

  Many on the force, some still serving now, were convinced the ‘Seaton Three’ was in fact the ‘Seaton Four’, with Ed the tainted missing piece. That, coupled with Sue nagging about how
he could make more money in her family’s business, had led Ed to resign. It was ten years before he rejoined. Now the Seaton Three was back to haunt him.

  He swallowed the last of his pint and was contemplating a second when the text alert sounded.

  He put his registered phone down on the table, read the text on the unregistered one.

  Check your account. Will expect information within 15 minutes.

  Internet banking gave everyone immediate 24-hour access. Ed went online. The money was in the pending transactions.

  Ed tapped out a reply:

  Subject will be alone tomorrow evening. More details to follow tomorrow morning.

  Chapter 44

  Sam was sitting in an interview room looking at the man opposite.

  Lester Stephenson was gaunt, jaundiced and with dyed jet-black hair contrasted with the matt grey frames of his glasses.

  His blue chalk pinstripe suit came with creases that could hand out paper cuts.

  Sam knew the sixty three year old hadn’t walked in of his own volition, hence the reason for keeping him waiting. Make him sweat.

  ‘What can I do for you Lester? Can I call you Lester?’

  ‘Yes,’ he stuttered, tongue running around his lips. ‘I felt it prudent…’

  He took a crisp white handkerchief out of his inside jacket pocket, wiped his forehead.

  ‘In view of the events at Malvern Close, and the fact that I spoke to a female police officer, I felt it prudent...’

  Sam doubted he would sweat, squirm and wring his hands more keenly had his wife been interrogating him over an affair. Lester Stephenson wanted to be anywhere but here.

  ‘I thought I would visit you Chief Inspector before you sent someone to visit me.’

  ‘And why would I do that?’

  ‘I just thought, well, you know, the fact that I visited that young lady…’

  ‘Your niece?’ Sam interrupted.

  Lester glanced sideways, put his hands over his mouth and coughed.

  ‘To save any embarrassment Chief Inspector I thought if I paid you a visit, in what would be more convivial surroundings than my house with my wife present, perhaps we could avoid the necessity of you visiting me at home and all the unpleasantness that would entail.’