The Truth About Murder

by Chris Collett

  ‘I’d appreciate it if we could keep these confidential for the moment, gents.’ While Westfield flicked through the pages, Warren-Byrne continued her speech. ‘We need to think about where our dwindling resources can be most effectively distributed to develop a healthy and resilient population. As you can see, it’s what some of the country’s most respectable institutions are striving to achieve, and this plan sets out exactly how to take this forward into the future. In turn, strengthening our many communities will inevitably strengthen our nation, making us more forward thinking and better equipped for the contemporary world. All we need is to have the right, charismatic leader in place.’ Warren-Byrne was staring with intent at Westfield, though he seemed not to notice. ‘When we do, others will follow his lead. It has happened before.’

  ‘I think that might be enough for now, Margot,’ said Bowers, taking a step towards her. ‘We should let Matthew read the report and mull things over.’

  But Warren-Byrne was warming to her theme, so she ignored him and pushed on, reminding me of what Stefan Greaves had said about the arrogance of medics.

  ‘This is our time,’ she said, in an increasingly impassioned voice. ‘We have science and common sense on our side. Of course, people have their rights, but at a time when resources are running short, we must balance the rights of the individual against the rights and welfare of the majority. It’s for the greater good. Medicine now enables us to eliminate physical weakness through termination, genetic counselling and embryo selection. We know for example that, thanks to more effective neonatal testing, conditions such as Down’s syndrome can be a thing of the past, as is already the case in Scandinavia. Our increased understanding of brain development and genetic propensity allows us to address social and moral weakness. Institutions such as law enforcement can support this and sometimes even lead—’

  ‘Perhaps we should show Matthew what we propose,’ said Bowers, stepping in.

  Warren-Byrne glared at him for a second, before yielding. ‘Of course, of course.’

  And this was where our luck ran out. In preparation for the big reveal, Curzon began shepherding his guests further into the room, across to where the shrouded entity stood (probably not a barbecue, after all). It effectively took them beyond the range of our hearing and of Montgomery’s phone recording. He made a “what do we do now?” gesture at me. The door still wasn’t open sufficiently wide for us to slip through, so, praying that it wouldn’t creak, I gave it a gentle nudge. It moved a couple of inches, then stopped. It was enough. I waved Montgomery in ahead of me and crept forward into the room, taking cover behind the potted palms. I was just getting into position, when I kicked the leg of a chair. It bounced and scraped on the tiled floor and everyone spun round in our direction.

  ‘What’s that? Who’s there?’ called Curzon senior.

  The only option was to brazen it out. I lunged at Montgomery, grabbing him by the arm.

  ‘You’ve got an intruder, sir.’ I stepped out into full view of everyone.

  ‘What the hell . . . ?’

  ‘This is PC Mick Fraser,’ Westfield said, making eye contact with me. ‘He’s been my body man while I’ve been here.’

  I addressed Bowers. ‘I was waiting in the car when I thought I saw someone approaching the house, sir. I was right. I followed him in here.’

  ‘Who is he?’ demanded Warren-Byrne.

  ‘Simon Montgomery, a reporter from the local rag.’ Bowers sneered. ‘Hoping to make his name, I suppose.’

  Warren-Byrne arched an eyebrow. ‘Well perhaps we should let him,’ she said. ‘Once our plans are signed and sealed, this news is going to be public anyway. It seems fitting that a local journalist should take the credit for breaking the story.’ Her expression hardened. ‘And we can make sure that he reports the facts of it accurately. Shape the message.’

  She turned to Ashley Curzon, who, with a flourish, threw off the sheet to reveal a table, on top of which was an architectural model of what appeared to be the two floors of this very building, side by side.

  ‘What is it?’ It was Westfield who had voiced the question in my head.

  Curzon stepped forward, his chest puffed with pride. ‘It’s a reimagining of Mawton Manor,’ he said. ‘This place is far too big for my family now, and I’m willing to let the health trust have it at a reasonable price. Plus, my teams will be on hand to do the conversion work.’

  ‘We’re going to develop our own centre for differential treatment, right here in Charnford.’ Warren-Byrne beamed at Westfield.

  It took him a moment to process the information.

  ‘You mean assisted suicide,’ he said.

  Bowers spoke up. ‘For years now, there have been calls on the government to make it legal, and surely it’s only a matter of time before the will of the people triumphs. We want to offer our citizens choice, you see,’ he said. ‘The centre will offer a range of services that will enable people to make informed decisions about their lives that would benefit society as a whole.’

  Warren-Byrne cut in, with the fervour of a sales rep closing a deal. ‘We will continue to promote our voluntary sterilisation programme,’ she said. ‘Persistent offenders could be offered it as a way of commuting their prison sentences. And there will be relief for the families of disabled people and children who feel that they can no longer manage.’

  ‘Hang on a minute . . .’ Ashley Curzon cut in, confused. Some of this was news to him, too.

  ‘It will dovetail neatly with our prioritised law enforcement policy,’ said Bowers.

  This was my chance. I took a deep breath.

  ‘That would be Operation Beagle you’re referring to, sir?’

  ‘In part, yes, Constable Fraser.’ Bowers shot me a warning look. ‘You haven’t been with us long, so you can’t be expected to understand its subtleties, or appreciate the difference it’s made in making Charnford a safer, more welcoming place.’

  My heart was thudding. ‘But at what cost?’ I asked. ‘And I don’t mean the economic cost, I’m talking about the human cost. When I saw the name on the folder, I thought it was named for your dog, but it’s not, is it, sir?’

  ‘What are you talking about, Mick?’ said Westfield.

  ‘Operation Beagle,’ I told him, ‘is a police initiative to ensure that certain crimes — depending on the victim’s perceived worth — go uninvestigated.’

  ‘Is this true?’ asked Westfield.

  Bowers stood his ground. ‘You said it yourself, Matthew. Our crime data is impressive, and we operate within budget. How many forces can say that?’ He attempted a dismissive laugh. ‘Fraser here’s just got hold of the wrong end of the stick.’

  ‘Actually, sir, what I’ve got hold of is Denny Sutton’s SIM card,’ I said. ‘The one that you were so keen to hang on to. It’s very informative. And I’m sure will be even more so, when cross-referenced with the data from phones belonging to other people in this room.’

  Bowers seemed to momentarily lose the power of speech.

  ‘Be very careful, PC Fraser,’ he said eventually, a strain in his voice.

  ‘Why? What will you do?’ I challenged him. ‘Silence me in the same way that Rita Todd was silenced?’

  Nobody spoke up to deny it, but when I saw the look Warren-Byrne and Tyler Curzon exchanged, my stomach lurched. They were thinking about it, and not ‘if’ but ‘how’.

  ‘Rita Todd should have focused on doing her job,’ said Warren-Byrne. ‘And left wider policy to those of us who understand the bigger picture.’ It was practically an admission of guilt.

  ‘You mean . . . ?’ Now it was Bowers’ turn to look discomfited.

  Warren-Byrne was quick to respond. ‘Something had to be done,’ she said, as if that was justification enough.

  ‘What do you want?’ Westfield demanded of her.

  ‘When you return to government, we want you to endorse and match our funding for these initiatives,’ said Warren-Byrne, a little less sure of herself now. ‘In return, you’d
get the blueprint of what we have done here, to roll out across the rest of the country. You’ve seen the proof, Matthew. It works. And when other towns and cities see our accomplishments, they will be desperate to adopt the same strategy. This is what will get you to the top of our political system once again.’

  Westfield looked appalled. ‘I want nothing to do with this,’ he said. ‘In fact, I think you’re out of your minds. There’s a precedent for such a plan and you seem to have overlooked its catastrophic outcome. And thank God, humankind has learned from it and moved on.’

  There was a foreboding silence. Ashley Curzon shifted his position.

  ‘Of course.’ Warren-Byrne smiled. ‘But there is much to be learned from our history, no matter how the positive aspects of such interventions might have been misremembered. There are and always have been people in this country who understand that the intentions behind such historical strategies were sound. It’s just that, in recent years, we haven’t had the opportunity to make our voices heard.’

  ‘And things are different now,’ Bowers chipped in. He cast around at the others for support. ‘Evidence supports this as the only sustainable long-term option.’

  ‘And you promised!’ Her cry was one of such desperation that we all, as one, turned to look at Margot Warren-Byrne.

  ‘When?’ demanded Westfield.

  She opened a book she held in her hands. I saw the gold number on the cover. It was an old diary. ‘“October sixteenth,”’ she read. ‘“Matthew Westfield spoke at the Union today. He said we can change the world. Talked into the night about how we would make it happen.”’ Triumphant, she was oblivious to the embarrassment of her colleagues.

  ‘I was twenty-two years old!’ Westfield exclaimed.

  ‘But I did this all for you!’ Warren-Byrne was aghast. ‘What about Amelie? Don’t you think this is exactly what she would have wanted?’

  Westfield stepped forward, and for a second I thought he might hit her. Instead he jabbed a finger at her, pure anger showing on his face. ‘What happened to my wife is nothing to do with you. You should all know that I plan to resign as a government advisor before the next general election. But rest assured, I will certainly take your ideas back to the prime minister. I think someone needs to know exactly what is going on here.’ He turned to Montgomery. ‘I think you’ve got more than a story here this evening. If you stick to the truth, I’ll endorse every word, although I think the people of Charnford and beyond will find it utterly incredible.’

  Warren-Byrne looked devastated, but the pragmatist in her didn’t take long to kick in.

  ‘You won’t be needing these, then, will you?’ she said, and snatched back the incriminating evidence.

  Ashley Curzon was staring at her with disbelief.

  ‘Jesus. How naïve am I?’ he said. ‘I thought you wanted a hospice. I thought you genuinely wanted the best for this town, not some . . . glorified social engineering experiment. I wash my hands of it. All of it.’ He threw the report back at her. ‘You’ll have to find yourselves some other premises. And now I’d like you all to leave my house, please. Tyler, come with me.’

  ‘Oh, I think Tyler’s old enough to make his own decisions,’ said Warren-Byrne. ‘And he can’t so easily turn his back on all this. He’s been doing a sterling job on our behalf for some time. I don’t think you appreciate him at all. He’s extremely versatile.’

  Curzon’s eyes narrowed as he turned his attention to Tyler. ‘What have you been up to, son?’

  ‘Oh, I know he’ll be far too modest to say,’ said Warren-Byrne. ‘But your offspring is a born leader, especially among those in the underclass. It’s really quite invigorating to have — what’s the colloquial term? — “muscle” at one’s disposal. And those young men from the Flatwood estate respond to his every request.’

  ‘What kind of request?’

  ‘Tyler provides an invaluable service,’ Warren-Byrne continued. ‘How would they cope without those little “extras” he provides that make their miserable lives a little more bearable? And in return, they would do almost anything for him. I imagine they enjoy it, the violence, I mean.’

  ‘You stupid little . . .’ Curzon was white with rage. ‘You’re still dealing? What are you doing hanging around with those people? We don’t even live there anymore.’

  ‘I’ve been helping to rid the town of benefit-scrounging scum, Dad,’ Tyler protested. ‘I thought that’s what you wanted.’

  ‘He’s his father’s son,’ went on Warren-Byrne. ‘It was Tyler himself who realised what a carefully placed rag in a boiler vent could do.’

  It took several seconds for Curzon to understand the implications of what she’d said.

  ‘You sabotaged the Asif family’s boiler?’ he said, realisation dawning. ‘Christ.’ He turned on Warren-Byrne. ‘What have you done to him?’

  Tyler Curzon looked at Bowers, then at me, then made a dash for the door. In another moment, he was through it and running down the corridor. As I turned to give chase, I heard scuffling behind me, a splash, and Montgomery shouting, before a door slammed shut.

  * * *

  We were a motley crew that left Mawton Manor that night. I called for reinforcements and two uniforms came and removed Tyler Curzon. It took a while to find his phone, which he’d shoved into a plant pot on his way past. That left Matthew Westfield in the front seat with me, and Keeley and Plum in the back — two ends of the sartorial spectrum. Plum was the last person I delivered home.

  ‘So, what’s with the name?’ I asked, to break the awkward silence.

  She told me.

  ‘That fella has a lot to answer for, doesn’t he?’

  Chapter Fifty-six

  I awoke from what had been a deep but troubled sleep to find Laura and Grace fussing over me and a lot of questions I needed answering — the first being how I finished up at their place.

  ‘Jake brought you,’ said Laura, as if that explained it. It made more sense when she added that Jake and Freckle-face Claire were an item.

  * * *

  When I was back in my flat, Mick Fraser came to visit. He arrived just as I was returning my chess pieces to their starting positions.

  ‘Did you win?’ he asked.

  ‘We agreed a draw,’ I said. ‘And Crusader got suddenly chatty. He’s been having treatment for a serious illness, but has just been given the all clear.’

  ‘So that’s why he kept to himself,’ he said. ‘D’you know, for a short time I even wondered if . . .’

  ‘Yeah, me too,’ I admitted.

  Fraser had come to fill me in on what I’d missed.

  ‘Best part of the caper and you slept right through it,’ he said.

  What he told me made for chilling listening, and I shuddered to think how differently it might have ended. ‘But Margot Warren-Byrne and Bowers had made a massive miscalculation with Matthew Westfield. They seem to have overlooked the fact that most people grow up and mature.’

  ‘And we thought he was behind it all.’

  He looked rueful. ‘Yeah, we didn’t get it quite right.’

  ‘And it was Tyler Curzon, not his dad, who was responsible for the death of the Asifs’ baby?’

  ‘Tyler or Warren-Byrne, depending on how you look at it. Curzon senior was genuinely horrified.’ Fraser shook his head in disbelief. ‘And there’s a catalogue of other offences. Tyler Curzon has been more or less running the Flatwood, using his power as a drug dealer to exert a hold over the lads he’d grown up with, most of whom had few other options open to them, including Gary Bostwick and Liam Archer.’

  ‘The man who killed your partner?’

  ‘We may never know if it was him or Curzon who wielded the knife, but my money is on Archer simply being the lure. All it took was a bit of weed and a handful of spent lottery tickets,’ said Fraser, grimly. ‘They convinced him they were winning numbers and that all he had to do was cash them in. That little lot have committed so many offences between them over the last few years, it’s
going to take a hell of a lot of sorting out. Something on that scale, even though we discussed it, I don’t think I really believed — it seemed . . . unimaginable.’

  I knew exactly what he meant. ‘But what about evidence?’

  ‘We’ve got layers of it.’ He told me about the SIM card he’d found and young Curzon’s phone. ‘The mobile links between him, Bowers, Denny and Warren-Byrne have got more strands to them than a cat’s-cradle. And backed up by the testimony of an influential politician, there’s enough to indict all four of them even without your friend Simon’s recording, which unfortunately went into the pool when he did.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes, Bowers apparently gave him a shove. It was quick thinking, really. Simon’s phone was irretrievably damaged.’ He looked askance at me. ‘And don’t be modest — you were pretty busy too.’

  ‘I just made the most of an opportunity,’ I pointed out. ‘Made possible by the ingenuity of a friend.’

  ‘I’ve no doubt that Bowers and Warren-Byrne will deny that the Pure strategy was a serious proposition, but it’s hard to refute when it’s there in black and white. Bowers tendered his resignation on the spot. Claimed he was leaving the force anyway.’

  ‘To spend more time with his conscience?’

  ‘Or his ego. He’ll still face the anti-corruption squad, who may yet bring criminal charges. It’s all taking a bit of untangling.’

  ‘And Rita?’ I asked.

  ‘Her case will be reopened,’ said Fraser. ‘Along with the circumstantial evidence, we now have a big, fat, publicly declared motive — and it’ll be down to the CPS, but I think Warren-Byrne pretty much incriminated herself in front of everyone.’

  ‘So, Rita did exactly what she set out to do when Andrea first brought her to our offices,’ I said. ‘She exposed what was going on. But I only had half the picture until I talked to you.’

  ‘I never asked,’ said Fraser. ‘How did you . . . ?’

  ‘Put simply, we talked to a priest about another priest, who, it turned out, had no interest in The Wizard of Oz whatsoever.’