by Iain Cameron
Dying for Justice
Iain Cameron
Contents
Title Page
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
FOURTEEN
FIFTEEN
SIXTEEN
SEVENTEEN
EIGHTEEN
NINETEEN
TWENTY
TWENTY-ONE
TWENTY-TWO
TWENTY-THREE
TWENTY-FOUR
TWENTY-FIVE
TWENTY-SIX
TWENTY-SEVEN
TWENTY-EIGHT
TWENTY-NINE
THIRTY
THIRTY-ONE
THIRTY-TWO
THIRTY-THREE
THIRTY-FOUR
THIRTY-FIVE
THIRTY-SIX
THIRTY-SEVEN
THIRTY-EIGHT
THIRTY-NINE
FORTY
FORTY-ONE
FORTY-TWO
FORTY-THREE
FORTY-FOUR
FORTY-FIVE
FORTY-SIX
FORTY-SEVEN
FORTY-EIGHT
About the Author
Acknowledgments
Also by Iain Cameron
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Copyright © 2022 Iain Cameron
The right of Iain Cameron to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission in writing of the copyright owner.
All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved.
To find out more about the author, visit the website:
www.iain-cameron.com
Dedication
For my sister Linda, I miss you so much
ONE
It was a freezing cold night. Martin Turner wasn’t sure if his shoes were slipping on patches of ice, or if he had lost control of his legs, but walking along Queens Road towards Brighton Station was proving tricky. He knew the station was there; it was the great big bloody thing at the end of the road, but he couldn’t see much else.
Nights like this, sitting in a bar until closing time before going on to a restaurant or a nightclub and drinking non-stop for five or six hours, were becoming more frequent. He did it because he enjoyed it, he thought, bringing a smile to his face. Of course, it also helped him forget about the shitty things in his life: the scumbags he defended, his failure of a marriage, and the poor excuse for a human being he worked alongside.
Turner walked into the station and stopped to look at the departures board. He tried to keep his body still for a few moments to focus on the information being presented, but it continued to sway, as if he was standing on the deck of a boat. There was an app on his phone which could tell him the times of the trains, but even if he used it in the pub, while still sober enough to select a train, the evening’s events had a habit of taking over.
An ‘important notice’ was displayed at the bottom of the screen. He screwed up his eyes to try and decipher it. He could make out ‘tree fall’ and ‘cancellation’. A few seconds later, the words sorted themselves into some sort of order, and he let out an exaggerated sigh in response. It sounded more like the yelp of a terrier, but it didn’t faze the half-dozen people in the station, many of whom looked as though they were in there to shelter from the cold weather.
Plan B, he said to himself, but he must have said it out loud, as a girl looked round. He giggled to himself as he walked outside. He understood enough about popular culture, courtesy of a teenage son and daughter, to know that Plan B was a rap star. Perhaps the lass had turned, thinking he’d been spotted.
He was still smiling to himself as he turned into Trafalgar Street, a tricky undertaking as it was a downward slope and the pavement was glistening with frost. Once a scruffy part of Brighton where no sensible person would venture out at this time of the morning, it had been gentrified with offices and apartments. How he wished he’d bought an apartment in this area and not Haywards Heath, but at least it contained the next best thing: the offices where he worked.
He turned left and walked past a large office complex, looking like a ghost town at this hour. He approached the main door of Linden House and used his pass key to open the door. The reception area was unmanned at this hour, but the glassy eye of the CCTV camera was unblinking. His saving grace was that the security guard rarely looked at it unless something had gone wrong in the night.
The offices of Jonas Baines, on the second and third floors, were deserted. While lawyers and paralegals were not 9-5 workers, and would continue beavering away on a case if they were required to meet a deadline, he couldn’t recall the last time anyone had burned the midnight oil. Just as well; it wouldn’t do for someone to be engaged in an important client meeting, only to be interrupted by his snoring.
He entered his office and closed the door. He shared it with slime-ball Trevor Robinson, who never arrived for work before 9am. This gave Turner plenty of time to freshen up in the well-appointed toilets, complete with shower and fresh towels, before Robinson would put in an appearance.
He pulled out a self-inflating mattress and blanket from the cupboard and lay them down on the floor. He removed his jacket, shirt, trousers and shoes, and was fast asleep seconds after pulling the blanket over his shoulders.
He was dreaming. A man looking like Mad Max, but with the face of one of his former clients, Bruce Nolan, was hammering a huge nail into his skull. The bastard! After all the help he had given him! The dream felt so vivid it woke him up.
He lay still, his head spinning, mouth tasting like the inside of a tramp’s underpants, and his painful bladder informing him he needed to pee or his mattress would turn into a lilo. He was trying to summon the energy to get up and walk to the bathroom when he heard something. It was a distinct thump-thump, but coming from where? He stopped and listened. Someone was in the office next door. The office belonged to Alex Vincent, a divorce lawyer and a man who would get a nose bleed if he worked beyond 6pm.
He levered himself up. Then, when his head had stopped spinning and he knew he wouldn’t puke, he tried the next stage. He stood for a moment, waiting until the room stopped moving from side to side, before walking to his office door and opening it quietly. He was tempted to first make a detour to the bathroom, as his bladder was starting to feel like an inflated beach ball, but curiosity triumphed.
The offices on this floor were glass-panelled, and he saw the flickering light before he got there. He peered through a gap in Vincent’s vertical blinds, trying to focus. If he’d had trouble reading the Brighton Station noticeboard under the full glare of station lights, he had little chance with this. He could see shadows and movement, but couldn’t be sure if someone was in the office, or if it was the reflection of something going on outside. Surely their window cleaners didn’t work at this time of the night?
Moving as quietly as possible, he eased the door open and peered inside. This was a better view than through the glass, as he now could see the figure of a man covered in black clothing. He was removing box files from the bookshelve
s behind the desk, opening them on the desk, and pulling out the papers inside. He then shoved the boxes back on the shelf, two at a time, making the thump-thump noise Turner had noticed earlier.
‘What the hell is going on here?’ Turner said, trying to sound forceful and authoritative, but it came out fretful and more high-pitched than he intended.
‘What the fuck!’ the man said. He threw the boxes he was holding on the desk and came striding towards Turner.
Martin Turner used to be a keen boxer in the days before pubs and young women took precedence over boxing gyms. The guy’s intention was clear, and before he came any closer and did some damage, Turner landed a haymaker on his jaw.
He took pride in the amount of power he could deliver in a punch, one was often enough to drop a normal opponent, but either the booze had made him weak, or this guy didn’t feel pain. He rubbed his jaw with his hand and continued his advance. The guy was bigger than Turner and the lawyer had no defence against the heavy blows that were soon pummelling him against the wall.
The attack stopped for a second and Turner used the temporary hiatus to land another blow on his opponent. Far from stopping him, it only seemed to enrage the guy, and he saw, only too late, the unmistakable glint of a blade in the man’s hand.
Turner was punched once, twice, three times in the stomach before he slumped down the wall, the life leaking out of him with every drop of blood that landed on the office carpet.
TWO
‘It’s not often we get called out to a crime scene during office hours,’ Detective Sergeant Carol Walters said.
‘Makes a change,’ Detective Inspector Angus Henderson replied, as he turned the car onto Trafalgar Street. ‘It’s more likely at two in the morning, when I’m recovering from a late night or I’ve been out for a long run.’
‘Talking of late nights, are you still seeing the woman living above you?’
‘What? Sharon Conner?’
‘Yeah.’
‘I can hardly avoid her, as she lives in the same building. We go out now and again, but it’s not what I would call serious.’
‘How very modern.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Youngsters nowadays, I’m told, don’t think they’re in a relationship until both parties agree that they are.’
‘It sounds so very formal.’
Henderson drove into a private road called Trafalgar Arches; on one side, the station, and on the other, a large office development. He slotted the car into a space beside Linden House, the building housing the offices of Jonas Baines, Solicitors and Notaries. The two detectives got out of the car and walked towards it. They showed their ID to the security guard. Heading towards the stairs, Henderson noticed the CCTV camera. On the second floor, the hive of activity and visible crime tape told them where to go.
Before approaching the pathologist, Grafton Rawlings, who was on his knees, examining a blood-stained body with gloved hands, Henderson and Walters donned an oversuit and covers for their shoes.
The DI knelt down beside the pathologist and the victim.
‘Morning, Grafton.’
‘Morning, Angus. For a change, we’re both not looking bedraggled and counting the minutes until we’re back in our beds.’
‘There’s always a first. Multiple stab wounds, is it?’
The injuries to the victim’s stomach were obvious, but the clothes he was wearing, or in fact, not wearing, were incongruous with the sombre surroundings. Despite the grief evident in many of the neighbouring offices, he could see a high standard of dress: smart suits for men and women, shirts and ties for the men. The victim, by way of contrast, was wearing a t-shirt and shorts; no trousers, jacket, or shoes.
‘He’s been beaten, which you can see on his face and arms. I’ll be in a better position to see the extent of it when I get him back to the mortuary. But that aside, yes, I can say at this stage he died from multiple stab wounds.’
‘Any idea of the time of death?’
‘Not too difficult in this case as rigor mortis hasn’t set in. I would say within the last four to six hours.’
Henderson looked at his watch: 8.30am. ‘Sometime between two and four this morning?’
‘Sounds about right.’
‘Would this be Alex Vincent, given the nameplate on the door?’
‘No it isn’t. I’m told the victim’s name is Martin Turner. His office is the one next door.’
‘Thanks Grafton,’ Henderson said, standing. ‘I’ll see you at the PM.’
‘Not if I see you first. Are we still on for the pub at seven on Thursday?’
‘We certainly are. See you later.’
Henderson joined Walters as they looked around the room. It contained a large desk with a computer, and behind the chair, bookshelves full of legal books and box folders, which he presumed were case files.
‘Not much to see, is there?’ she said.
‘No, you’re right. Let’s go talk to the senior partner, or whoever is in charge.’
They walked out of Vincent’s office and Henderson took a quick look inside the one next door, which confirmed what he had suspected.
Ten minutes later, the detectives were seated in the well-appointed office of the managing partner at Jonas Baines, Robert Haldane. The door was closed and all three had a cup of hot coffee to drink. Not a bad start.
‘First of all, Mr Haldane, please accept my condolences for the loss of one of your own,’ Henderson said, ‘and my apologies in advance for any disruption my officers may cause.’
‘The victim of this horrendous crime was my beloved friend and colleague, Martin Turner. He ran the criminal side of this practice, and it’s no exaggeration to say it was through his efforts that it has become the powerhouse it is today.’
Haldane was mid-fifties and looked every inch the successful partner in a large legal practice. His salt-and-pepper hair was slicked back, no doubt to look good in the convertible Jaguar sports car Henderson had spotted in the reserved space in the car park. He wore an expensive looking shirt and suit, a fat gold watch, and his skin exuded a healthy tone not gained from lying out in wintry Brighton, more likely a recent holiday in the Middle East or the Caribbean.
‘I’ve come across Mr Turner several times in the past,’ Henderson said, ‘and I’ve always found him to be tenacious but fair.’
‘It’s a good assessment, Detective Inspector.’
‘Tell me, Mr Haldane, did Mr Turner often sleep in his office?’
The well-coiffured and unflappable expression of Robert Haldane’s face faltered, changing to something that Henderson thought looked like disappointment. The expression of a father who found out his favourite son wasn’t capable of taking over the family firm, or had been dating a girl he regarded as unsuitable.
‘Martin started to fray around the edges about three years back, not long after his wife initiated divorce proceedings. In this legal practice, that side of things is run by Alex Vincent, whose office all your people are occupying. Alex and Martin were good friends, and I imagine when talking about cases over a drink, Martin always thought it was something that happened to other people. He wasn’t a man who took failure easily.’
‘Was his marriage breakdown due to the pressure of work?’ Walters asked.
‘No. I wish it was, as then I could have done something about it. No, it was his wife’s infidelity with her son’s piano teacher.’
‘All the same,’ Henderson said, ‘many people go through divorce and don’t end up sleeping on the floor of their office. I imagine a successful lawyer could afford something better.’
Haldane bristled; clearly this was a touchy topic. ‘Oh, he could, and did. He owned a smart apartment in Haywards Heath. However, now and again a thick black cloud would descend, and those working close to him would know that night he would go on a bender. More often than not it was easier, and safer, for him to sleep here than catch a train home. As long as it didn’t become known among the younger and more impressionable me
mbers of staff, I decided I would let it go.’
‘Early indications are,’ Henderson said, ‘Mr Turner was killed by an intruder.’
It was the only logical conclusion Henderson could draw at the moment, until he knew more about the Jonas Baines business. This was based on the victim’s injuries and the time of death, which excluded an argument with a colleague or client. Haldane’s lack of reaction told him the lawyer was thinking the same.
‘Have you any idea who that might be, Mr Haldane? It looks like either a person was lying in wait to attack Mr Turner, or there was someone here for some other purpose, and Mr Turner disturbed them.’
Haldane steepled his fingers, considering the question. ‘As a consequence of Martin spending his days defending serious criminals, it would be logical to point the finger at one of them. However, his job was helping those people, not trying to send them to prison. The only time I think resentment would fester would be if Martin had done a sloppy job, but that option wasn’t in his toolbox.’
‘Nevertheless, you can understand why his working with criminals does interest us.’
Haldane sighed. ‘Yes, I can.’
‘If we consider the second scenario, of him being in the wrong place at the wrong time,’ Henderson said, ‘do you keep, beyond the obvious electronic equipment, any valuables in your offices? I’m thinking here about cash, cheque books, jewellery, bearer bonds, anything that a thief might want to steal.’
He shook his head. ‘I know some legal offices hold assets on behalf of clients, but we do not. If, as you say, Martin was killed by an intruder, I don’t have the faintest idea what he or she thought they might steal. On the other hand, if their metabolism was full of drugs, which Brighton seems to be awash with at the moment, who knows what twisted logic was going on inside their heads?’
The two detectives left the offices of Jonas Baines ten minutes later. They now had the address of Martin Turner’s ex-wife, and that of the apartment he owned in Haywards Heath. Robert Haldane also promised to supply them with a copy of any CCTV feeds from the previous night, and a list of all Turner’s clients by the close of business.