by Iain Cameron
She wasn’t a big eater. She valued her trim figure, something which took considerable self-discipline for a woman pushing forty, more than any desire for food. However, she did like Marco’s as the dishes not only looked lovely, they tasted amazing, and weren’t served in large portions. Ray often had a moan about it, despite him eating dessert and tucking into all the petite fours served with coffee.
This type of lunch suited her, as Ray would wash it down with an expensive wine. The way he drank, slurping it down like a builder’s first pint of the day, would have him comatose for most of the afternoon. It was also a good excuse for him to get out of the heat, as it was too much for a Northern lad, as he liked to say.
Clare would be awake, rifling through the safe in the lounge. She had already searched the safe at Warninglid, leaving this one, the one in London, and the one at the villa in St Lucia. She hoped she would soon find what she was looking for, as she couldn’t bear to spend another holiday with Ray Schofield.
TEN
‘What’s wrong, darling?’ Anita Vincent asked, walking into the marital bedroom and taking a seat on the bed beside the prostrate figure of her husband. ‘Aren’t you going into work today?’
Alex turned to face her. ‘I feel listless, completely lacking in energy.’
She leaned over and playfully nipped his cheek with her fingers. ‘You were a bit of a tiger in bed last night. I thought we were going to wake the boys. Perhaps you overdid it.’
‘No, it’s not that.’
‘No? What then? The murder at the office?’
‘You make it sound like the title of one of those books you’re always reading.’
‘Obviously, with something so vicious happening so close, in your actual office, it’s bound to affect you. However, you said it yourself, you didn’t like the man much.’
‘It doesn’t mean I wanted him dead,’ he said curtly.
‘No need to be so snappy, I’m only concerned for your welfare.’
‘I know you are, darling. I’m sorry.’
‘Mummy! He’s hitting me!’ came a cry from downstairs.
She sighed. ‘I stupidly left them eating breakfast together. No doubt I’ll go down and find there’s more Rice Krispies on the floor than in their bowls. I’d better go or they’ll never be ready for school. Get up if you’re going in to work, or if not, phone and pull a sickie.’
‘I’ll go in, don’t worry.’
Ten minutes later he was showered and dressed, and walked downstairs into the kitchen. Ben and Thomas were nowhere to be seen, no doubt upstairs making an attempt at putting on their uniform for school while their noses were buried in a book, or in Tom’s case, a comic.
His usual breakfast was Shredded Wheat with whatever fruit was around, or if Anita could be bothered and the boys were behaving themselves, eggs. In winter, it was often something warm, usually porridge or Weetabix with hot milk. This morning nothing appealed.
He poured a cup of coffee and took a seat at the kitchen table. Sweeping the floor, Anita had been right, there was enough cereal in the pile of debris to feed another child. It was just a shame the dog didn’t like Rice Krispies.
‘Do you want me to make you something?’
‘No. Anyway, you haven’t time. You concentrate on getting the boys out the door. I’ll sort myself.’
‘You can’t go to work on an empty stomach.’
‘There’s a sandwich bar near the office. If I get hungry, I’ll buy something there.’
She was saying something about not knowing what rubbish ingredients were included in shop-bought food, but he wasn’t really listening. The murder of Martin Turner had shaken him. He should have felt reassured by the interview he’d had with the two detectives from DI Henderson’s team, who told him it was either a random act, or his colleague had been specifically targeted. There was no need for other members of the legal practice to feel threatened.
The reason this didn’t make him feel safe was that he had known people like Martin Turner at the private school he’d once attended. While they were rarely academic, they dominated the sports field, whether in rugby, cricket, or tennis, were popular with many teachers, and a hit with all the girls. In his mind, people like this were bulletproof, able to withstand and bat away the trials and problems that life threw at them as easily as a bouncer from a West Indian bowler.
If Martin Turner could be stabbed to death so easily by some low-life, what did it say about his own chances? How could he protect the house, his wife, the two boys? He was thirty-eight, but starting to believe his adverse reaction to Martin’s murder was in part due to the early onset of a mid-life crisis.
He’d been feeling this way for several weeks, one question continually popping into his head: Is this all there is? Would he always be trapped in a box marked, ‘divorce lawyer, married to Anita, father of Ben and Thomas?’ What had happened to his dreams of inventing something, of climbing Everest, taking a year out to sail around the world?
With considerable effort, he said goodbye to his family, picked up his briefcase, and walked out to the car. If there was one aspect of his life that didn’t mark him out as a staid, washed-up, middle-aged lawyer, it was the car. Jonas Baines operated a leasing scheme, offering him a sum of money to lease any car of his choosing. The other partners drove status symbols: Jaguars, Mercedes, Range Rovers, while he opted for a BMW 8 Series, a stunning-looking coupe with a top speed of over one hundred and fifty-five miles per hour. When he was feeling blue, he knew a quiet stretch of road where he could open the car up and let it fly.
He completed the drive from the house in Henfield to Trafalgar Street in a dream. It was often said that sophisticated cars like the BMW could almost steer themselves, making the driver feel refreshed when they arrived, as if they had barely left home. To him, this was advertising flim-flam. However, he couldn’t have told an enquirer if traffic on the road was light, if the weather was windy or wet, or what the presenters on the Radio 4 Today programme he had been listening to were talking about.
Vincent approached Linden House, and climbed the stairs. He was more awake now, his mind in his usual professional lawyer mode. He needed to be, as despite having worked there for years, he would not be allowed to enter unless he used his key card to open the door, signed the Security Book, and had his photograph taken by the camera. He imagined the other partners would soon tire of this imposition, but for him, it offered a modicum of reassurance.
At the back of his mind, his reluctance to come into work this morning was in part due to his move back into his office. It had been a week since the murder and the police had finished with what they were doing a few days before. Since then the firm had employed a team of contractors to deep clean the crime scene: replacing the blood-stained carpet, removing the police tape, and cleaning all surfaces of fingerprint dust.
He had been presented with the gleaming, finished article the previous night by Robert Haldane, and told to take as much time as he needed. He had been working in one of the meeting rooms for the last week, and despite not having access to all his files, had coped admirably.
None of his divorce clients would have noticed much difference. It was tempting to carry on in this way indefinitely, but to the other partners in the firm, many cut from the same mould as Martin Turner, it would show him up to be, in their terminology, a wuss. He would be forever tagged as a yellow-bellied, spineless coward who could never be trusted.
He placed his briefcase on the desk, removed his jacket and hung it on the coat stand. He stood at the desk, thinking. There was a decision to make. A paralegal appeared at the door, but without saying anything he waved her away.
Summoning up resolve he didn’t think he possessed, he walked into Meeting Room 2, the place where he had decamped, and began the process of moving his papers and boxes back into his office. No one offered to help, perhaps feeling they would be tainted by walking into a former crime scene, or maybe his stony expression was repelling them. Plus, he didn’t want any
assistance. The demons he was wrestling with were his and his alone.
By nine-thirty, the move back to his office was complete. He sat down at his desk and let out a long sigh. He reached over to the piles of papers and began to put them back where they belonged. His more relaxed demeanour must have been noticed, as one of the secretaries walked in and placed a cup of coffee on his desk.
‘I thought you might need this,’ she said.
‘Thanks, Alice, I do.’
‘If you need anything else just shout.’
‘Have I got any meetings today? I’m not sure where I put my diary.’
‘You’ve got Mrs Russell at eleven-thirty and a partners’ lunch at one. There’s nothing in the diary for this afternoon, but I expect you’ll find it by then.’
‘Great, Alice, thanks. You’re a lifesaver.’
‘I aim to please.’
He was often asked if divorce work was depressing, picking over the dead bones of what used to be a thriving marriage. In some ways, and in some circumstances, it was, particularly when children were involved, but there could be a bright light at the end of the tunnel. Years later, when the wounds had healed, he would occasionally meet one of the previously warring parties, and often they were flourishing in a new relationship and happy to be exploring new opportunities.
If the questioner still harboured doubts, he would compare it with the crime team in the office next door. There, clients could be heinous criminals facing life behind bars for a brutal murder. Martin and Trevor had no choice but to put a brave face on it and try to secure the best deal they could for their client. Often there was no light or anything at all bright at the end of that particular tunnel.
By eleven, with the majority of his paperwork now in its place, he pulled out the Russell file to prepare for his next meeting. Due to the reputation of the firm and the high fees charged, the majority of divorces crossing his desk involved substantial amounts of capital. Most couples in the end would come to some sort of arrangement over the children, but the division of those assets caused more rancour than anything else.
The Russell divorce was, for the moment at least, an amicable one. Mrs Russell was rich, the chief executive of an office cleaning company, while her husband was a part-time web designer and prime carer of their three children. The couple were in agreement that he would receive the sum of ten million, and a monthly salary which would be used to look after the children.
The two parties hadn’t yet come to an agreement about the amount of the husband’s monthly salary, as they had to take into consideration his earnings. He was self-employed and his earnings fluctuated greatly, so they had decided to take the average over three years. Vincent had asked her husband for the information, and he was sure Roberto had sent it, as Vincent could recall seeing it. Now, where had he put it?
He kept many current files close to hand in a drawer in his desk, but he searched there without success. He then turned to the bookcases behind his desk. He found the box file containing the Russell family information. He removed it and lay it on his desk. He took a seat and opened it. The Russell folder was there, but when he looked inside, it was empty.
ELEVEN
At eight-thirty, Henderson pushed through the double doors and entered the Detectives’ Room. At the far side, he joined his murder team for the morning briefing. The group of fifteen or so present were quiet, a common trait part-way through an investigation when many leads had been chased down with no discernible result, and with few others appearing on the immediate horizon.
On the whiteboard behind him were three main headings, the key prongs of their approach for finding the killer of Martin Turner: family and friends, work colleagues, criminal clients.
Henderson perched on the edge of a spare desk. ‘Phil,’ he said to DC Philip Bentley, ‘I think we’ve exhausted the family and friends file. Are we in a position to close it?’
‘I think so, gov. On the family side, I don’t think I’ve ever met such a level-headed and well-adjusted bunch of people in my life. They were all proud of his achievement at becoming a partner in Jonas Baines, even if for some, defending scumbags railed against their morale code.’
‘What about friends?’
‘He had a wide group of friends, the closest, I came to realise, the people he met at school. As has been said before, his best friends were Stephen Bradshaw and Will Slater.’
‘Bradshaw. This is the guy who was with our victim earlier on Tuesday evening?’
‘Yep, and his story checks out. CCTV confirms he left the bar around ten and went home.’
‘No animosity between the two men?’
‘We’ve got CCTV of them sitting in the bar. It was all joking and laughing. A typical blokes night out if you ask me.’
‘Bradshaw went straight home?’
‘He did. Confirmed by his wife and grown-up son.’
‘What about Slater?’
‘He was devastated to hear about Turner’s death, probably more than Bradshaw. He had arranged to meet the victim about a week before his murder and was forced to cancel at the last minute. He was beating himself up about it.’
‘Where was he on Tuesday night?’
‘At home with his wife and kids. She confirmed it.’
‘Okay. Nothing else?’
‘That’s it.’
‘Right, the family and friends line of enquiry is closed. Let’s move on to the victim’s work colleagues. Vicky, your call.’
‘Right, gov. We’ve met a number of people at Jonas Baines, and two people stand out. There’s the guy the victim shared an office with, Trevor Robinson, and his neighbour from the office next door, Alex Vincent.’
‘No one else?’
She shook her head. ‘Nope.’
‘What about Haldane?’ Walters asked. ‘I didn’t take to the man.’
‘He thinks of himself as a wheeler-dealer, a big noise in Sussex society. As much as I wouldn’t want to be stuck in a lift with him, as he gives off a creepy vibe, his grief following Turner’s death seemed genuine. From a business perspective, he’s lost out big time. Turner was a big earner for the practice and not an easy man to replace. Not to mention, Haldane and the victim were best buddies. Several people said so.’
Henderson considered this for a few moments. ‘Yes, I tend to agree with you. If Haldane had fallen out with Turner, or he hated the guy, I’m sure he could have found a way to lever him out of the practice before it came to this.’
‘It wouldn’t be hard,’ Neal said. ‘Smelling of booze is enough to get you suspended in many businesses.’
‘There’s no one else working at Jonas Baines,’ Henderson asked, ‘or anyone flagged by someone else; a temp, intern, or the security guard?’
‘No. We’ve interviewed a large proportion of their staff, and nobody can think of any reason why Turner was murdered.’
Henderson was alarmed to see the number of ‘persons of interest’ dwindling to a dangerously low level. ‘Tell us about Vincent and Robinson.’
‘Let me start with Trevor Robinson, the guy who shared Turner’s office,’ Neal said. ‘He’s worked with the victim on crime cases, and apparently they were the best of friends at one time.’
‘This is what Turner’s ex-wife told us.’
‘They would go out drinking together and, as Robinson likes a flutter, sometimes to the races.’
‘They fell out?’
‘They did, big time. Robinson told us it was because Turner believed he was coming on strong to his eighteen-year-old daughter at a summer garden party. In retaliation, he smacked Robinson on the nose.’
‘Not a good move to promote good working relations. You’ve corroborated this story with other attendees?’
‘The consensus from those who were there was that an incident did happen, but not as Robinson describes it. They say Turner was getting annoyed not with Robinson’s behaviour, but with his daughter, who was tipsy and flirting like mad with Robinson. He went over to remonstrate, and in the p
rocess of hauling her away, accidentally, and for that read, drunkenly, elbowed Robinson in the face. He apologised for it afterwards.’
‘So, what caused the big falling out?’
‘Robinson doesn’t just like a flutter, he’s a serious gambler.’
‘Is he?’
‘Yes, from what we’ve been told, more and more when the two men went out together, it wasn’t for a good drinking session as Turner wanted, but to a place where Robinson could place a bet. He did this at rugby games, horse races, casinos, you name it.’
‘What caused the relationship to sour? Surely Robinson’s a grown man and free to do whatever he likes with his own money?’
‘In most forms of life it wouldn’t be an issue, but just as we in the force don’t tolerate heavy gamblers, as it might make them susceptible to taking bribes or stealing from drug hauls, it seems Turner felt the legal practice offered similar temptations. They have access to people’s wills, they deal with criminals who might use it as a lever, and so on.’
‘Did Turner report him?’
‘Haldane had been made aware of the situation, but declined to do anything to rock the boat. Turner and Robinson, in his view, were a great team and making more money for the practice than anyone else. Turner wasn’t appeased, and warned Robinson if he didn’t mend his ways he would make sure he would suffer.’
‘I’ve known several serious gamblers,’ Henderson said, ‘and it’s hard to change them without help, and only then if they want to do it themselves. All the same, does a soured relationship give Robinson enough reason to kill Turner? If things were coming to a head, all Robinson needed to do was resign from Jonas Baines, maybe with a decent reference in his back pocket as Turner would be glad to see him go, and find a job somewhere else.’