by Zach Abrams
After a few moments, Sandra selected some of the files and lifted them across to a large table in the corner of the room. She started to extract photographs and placed them in groupings to let her compare each set, carefully studying the detail.
“Bingo!” she called.
“Just a mo,” Peter said, covering the receiver. “I'm almost finished, I'll be over when I complete this call.”
A few seconds later, Peter replaced the phone. “What have you got?”
“Have a look at these. I've extracted this top set from the CCTV in the cash room and the second group were picked up from cameras the following day, from around the Courthouse, shortly before or after the assault.”
“You can make out the weapon on the top ones, but I can't judge if it's real or a replica, or even a toy. The men are not very clear, you can't see their faces in any of the photos,” Peter replied. “What do you see?”
“First of all, the size and shape of the gunman looks fairly close to this one in the other photos, and the wee guy with him could be the small one of the second group, but more to the point, look at what he's wearing.” Sandra pointed to the taller of the young men.
“I don't see what you mean. The shoes and chinos look similar, but it's just a plain trackie top.”
“Try using this,” Sandra offered, handing him a magnifying glass.
He studied the photos again and shook his head.
“Look at the sleeve, near the top.”
“I've got it,” he yelled enthusiastically. “The Hugo Boss logo, it's on both of the photos. He didn't buy that in Primark or TJ's.”
“More likely Fraser's and probably nicked it rather than bought it,” Sandra replied.
“But there can't be too many of them around. Not enough to make it likely to be worn by two different people committing crimes in the same place a day apart.”
“That was my thinking,” Sandra said.
“You have your link.”
“It's a link, not my link. Now all we have to do is work out what on earth the connection could be. Why should the same person be behind setting up an armed robbery which was only ever likely to yield a pittance and what looks like a revenge attack on Hardy?”
“Well, you said earlier that you thought Zennick was responsible for the attack on Hardy and, if so, perhaps it was motivated by revenge for him screwing up his defence,” Peter suggested.
“Yes?”
“Maybe, he also felt aggrieved at the Courts and the Procurator and the Police and he staged the hold-up solely to cause embarrassment, a way of getting his own back a little.”
“Okay, I can follow your reasoning, but is it really likely he'd go to all that trouble and put himself or his people at so much risk for so little return, even allowing for the embarrassment angle?” Sandra asked.
“Who knows? Perhaps he didn't realise how little cash was kept on the premises. In any event, it's a working hypothesis and, for the time being, we don't have anything better to go on,” Peter replied.
“Fair enough. How did you get on checking on Zenick's visitors?”
“There's only been one, his brother, Karol. He went to see him twice, but Zenick's also made phone calls. Though I've not yet been able to find out to whom.”
“Wait a minute,” Sandra interrupted. “I've read his file. Zennick doesn't have a brother. Or rather he only has a half-brother who lives in Ukraine, no other family in the UK. This raises a number of new questions. Who came to see him? And what identification were they able to show to enable them to pass through security?”
“This could end up a long night,” Peter said.
“Not for me, I'm afraid. I've been at it since first thing this morning and my brain won't function for much longer if I don't get some rest. I've not got back into a proper rhythm yet, since my holiday.”
“I thought after a holiday, you're meant to come back bright and refreshed and raring to go,” Peter challenged.
“Yeah, that's the theory.”
Chapter 10
Lionel looked confident as he approached the interview room. Aged sixty-two, he was only slightly short of six foot in height and his full head of hair was a natural brown colour. His robust and muscular frame conveyed the impression of a military deportment and, supplemented by a Mediterranean tan, he could easily have passed for ten years younger.
Despite the inclement conditions, he had no jacket, was dressed in an open-necked shirt worn loosely over chinos, and he was carrying a pilot case.
“DC McAvoy said you needed to see the invoice for the knife set. I don't understand the urgency, but I suppose that's your business. I also took a photocopy and I brought it and the original along with the whole of the receipts file for this year and the cash book, in the event you wanted to ask how the system works,” he added indicating his bag.
“Most thorough indeed,” Alex replied. “I'm DCI Alex Warren and we'd like you to come through here for a bit of a chat.”
Lionel blinked twice and looked a little bit shaken. “You're a chief inspector and you want to see me. Why? I already told the constables what I knew.”
“I'm overseeing this case and I've been going through the evidence collected. There are a few matters from your statement where we require some further clarification. Nothing for you to worry about. Now that you're here, it would be a good time to get these matters settled.”
Lionel nodded slowly, but the blood seemed to drain from his face, giving him a more ashen complexion. “Yes, I suppose it's best to get it out of the way,” he mumbled.
After taking their seats and going through the preliminaries, Alex commenced. “In your earlier statement, given to DC's McAvoy and McKenzie, you reported that you didn't know Sheila Armstrong very well. Now, put simply, that isn't true, is it?”
Lionel gave a brief shake of his head then and making a limited show of bravado, he exclaimed, “Why? Who's told you different?”
“It's of no relevance to you where we get our information. What's very important is you've lied, and more to the point, you've been caught lying amidst a major crime investigation. This is a serious matter and you could be prosecuted.” Alex's fierce expression intimidated and Lionel shrank back in his seat.
“You have to understand; I didn't mean to mislead you, but I couldn't really say anything while Hannah was there. I didn't have a free moment to talk privately to the officers and she wouldn't have understood.”
“But you didn't voluntarily correct your statement afterwards,” Alex pursued.
“No, you're right. I'm sorry,” Lionel uttered in hardly more than a whisper. His eyes were heavy and he looked ready to burst into tears.
“Please speak clearly so you can be picked up on the recording,” Alex continued, giving no indication of sympathy.
“I will tell you, but can we please keep this private? As I said, Hannah would never understand,” Lionel pleaded.
“You are in no position to make demands. We don't know yet what you have to tell us; however, it will be your own private statement and, unless we find it necessary, there's no reason for the contents to be made public.”
Alex's tone remained firm, but the reconciliatory nature of his words was reassuring enough. Lionel nodded his head slowly and replied, “Okay, what do you want to ask?”
“We need it in your own words. How well did you really know Sheila?”
Lionel looked down at his feet, unable to hold eye contact. “We'd been friends with each other for some years, seeing one another at the Group sessions and at the executive meetings. We used to have a good rapport, not just the two of us, but many within the group. It's not surprising, when you put together a number of people with sharp minds and a love for words, then that's what happens. There was lots of banter and sometimes it could become quite racy, full of double entendres, but all very innocent. Well, that's how it was.” Lionel had attached emphasis to the word “was.”
“And?” Alex pushed.
“I'm giving you the background,�
� Lionel resumed. “As I said, we had become good friends, as had many of the writers, and then a few months ago…” Lionel halted for several seconds and Alex and Mary both knew better than to say anything, the silence pressuring him to continue.
When Lionel continued, his voice was barely audible, at first spoken in staccato fashion, with pauses punctuating each sentence, then gathering pace and volume as if desperate to purge himself.
“Sheila asked me over to her house to discuss some Committee business.
“It was in the afternoon and Graeme was out.
“We discussed the business and we drank wine.
“I'm not much of a drinker and certainly not through the day. I was feeling a little bit tipsy.
“We started discussing the Club's entry for the one act play. I told her I had one or two ideas but I hadn't started writing anything yet.
“Sheila told me she was hoping her application would be selected. She had it almost completed and offered to let me see it.
“She added that she was hoping for my support as I'd be one of the appraisers drawing up the shortlist. I suppose I felt a bit flattered, her being a talented, attractive, younger woman asking for my help. She said she'd get her entry for me to read.
“She topped up my glass then left the room and returned a few minutes later.” Lionel's speech steadily became more fluid, almost as if he was reading a script. “She had changed what she was wearing and was dressed in a loose-fitting kimono style outfit. She started to read me her play. The air was heavy with the smell of perfume. I made a comment like 'something smelled nice' and she asked if I liked it. Before I could answer, she came over very close and pulled my head between her breasts. She wasn't wearing a bra and my face was touching her flesh. Then she asked if I liked it any better now.
“I was intoxicated by the wine and the perfume and the feel of her skin. I couldn't believe what was happening,” Lionel paused.
“You had sex?” Alex asked.
“Well, not in the true sense. I remember Bill Clinton making the claim that the sort of intimacy he had wasn't sex. But yes, we had relations. She was amazing. She did things and let me do things Hannah wouldn't have dreamed of. It wouldn't have been kosher, if you know what I mean,” he added with a weak smile.
“And was this a one off?” Alex asked.
“No, we met two more times, always at Sheila's house. By then she had my full support for her entry in the competition. I'd become entranced. I'd have done anything she asked, I wanted to see her again, but she said no. With the benefit of hindsight, I'm sure she only used me to get what she wanted and then she wasn't interested.”
“And that was it?” Alex enquired.
“I tried to pressure her to see me again, but she refused and she threatened to say something to Hannah if I didn't leave her alone. It was then I woke up and realised how stupid I'd been. My marriage, my family, my life, I'd risked them all for a few moments of passion. I wanted to put it behind me and prayed Hannah would never find out. You won't have to say anything, will you?”
“We'll need to see,” Alex replied. “What you've told us is a cast-iron motive for wanting to silence her and, what's more, you had advance knowledge of the contents of the play. I'm making no promises that the whole story won't come out. However, for the time being, at least, we have no reason to make anything public.
“Let me ask you something else,” Alex added. “Do you have any interest in acting or performing magic?”
“No, none at all,” Lionel answered. “I'm happy writing and even reading out my work, but the very thought of appearing on a stage or in front of an audience terrifies me. I'll help at Club events, but only with the backstage work. I sometimes had to do presentations at work and I always hated them. Why do you ask?”
“It's not important,” Alex replied. “That's all we need from you for just now, unless Mary has anything.” Mary shook her head. “In that case, you can go, but we may need to talk to you again.”
“Thank you, Chief Inspector. I won't be far away if you need me for anything and please remember to keep what I've said private, if you possibly can,” Lionel pleaded.
He left the room and Mary turned to Alex. She didn't say anything but raised her eyebrows in a display of mock amazement.
“I take it you didn't see that coming?” Alex asked.
“Didn't you see, I had to bite my lip so as not to giggle or appear unprofessional. I'll probably be bruised for a week.”
“Just one of the perils of the job and don't go thinking you can make an industrial injury claim.” They were both still laughing as they arrived back at their offices to be met by Phil, on his way out with Steve, having received notification of where Honey D'Lite was staying.
“Hi, Boss, I finally got word through. Honey's real name is Annabelle Ratcliffe. She and her partner are touring Europe and staying at the Malmaison, so she's certainly not roughing it. Obviously, she has plenty of cash. She's there at the moment and booked in for dinner. I've phoned ahead to say we need to meet her,” Phil advised.
“Good, but just to ensure you don't get any wrong ideas, you're allowable expenses don't run to joining her for a meal,” Alex replied, smiling. “Keep me posted on how you get on.”
* * *
The Malmaison is a boutique hotel converted from a blonde-coloured, sandstone-fronted, Episcopal Church, set in West George Street, in the centre of Glasgow's Commercial district. It's only a short distance from the Central Police Offices in Pitt Street and close to Blythswood Square. Phil and Steve jogged up the steps and across the marble floor to approach the dark wood-panelled reception and asked for Ms Ratcliffe.
A call was placed to her room and the detectives took a seat next to a coffee table to await her arrival. Phil and Steve chatted distractedly, occasionally looking around them expecting the arrival of the petite young American lady, whose photo they'd seen on Honey D'Lite's Facebook page. They were completely wrong-footed when a shadow descended over them, created by the heavy-set frame of a figure standing close to six feet six inches tall and with shoulders which wouldn't have been out of place in a WWF ring.
“Detective Morrison. I'm Annabelle Ratcliffe,” the voice boomed and a large meaty hand was proffered in introduction.
Phil looked round, then up and up further to see a heavily freckled but pretty face with long cascading curls, smiling down at him.
He jumped to his feet and raised his hand to complete the introduction. “Yes, I'm Phil Morrison and this is my colleague Detective Constable Steve Fleming,” Phil stammered then unsteadily released his hand from the vice-like handshake. “As I said on the phone, there's something we need to talk to you about.”
“Yes, I was most intrigued by your call, my husband too, but I've convinced him to wait in our room to give me time to find out what this is all about.”
“I'm sorry, I wasn't able to say before and we were in a hurry to speak to you while you were available in Glasgow. Is there somewhere we can talk that's a little more private?”
“Okay, we can go downstairs to the bar. I'm sure we can find a quiet corner.”
A few moments later they settled into a booth, having already rejected the offer of drinks or coffees.
“Please excuse me for staring, but you don't look at all like your photograph,” Phil started. He was only beginning to come to terms with the size and shape of Ms Ratcliffe and her being so different from what he'd expected. He remembered Alex's suggestion that it could be a man and, despite being informed her husband was upstairs in their bedroom, he found himself staring at her neck, looking for an Adam's apple.
“My photograph? I don't understand. Now what is this all about?” Annabelle questioned.
“I'm sorry, I should have explained first. We understand that you're a writer and that you use the pseudonym Honey D'Lite.”
“Why, yes, that's right, but how could you possibly know? I don't have many fans in Britain.” It was now Annabelle's turn to look surprised.
�
�We're involved in an investigation and we wanted to find out more about 'Honey D'Lite.' Our enquiries revealed the person behind the name was currently in Glasgow and furthermore that it was you, Annabelle Ratcliffe.”
“That's starting to make sense, but why on earth would Glasgow police want to know anything about Honey?”
“We can explain all of that in a few minutes, but to start with we need you to answer a few questions. First, can you tell us when you arrived in Glasgow, how you've got here and where you've been staying?”
“Yes, no problem. We flew from Rome to London last Wednesday and then travelled to Glasgow by train two days ago. I have copies of our itinerary and our flight tickets if you need them.”
“Yes, that would be helpful,” Steve replied. “Might you also have records proving where you went or what you did each day since arriving in the UK?”
“Are you serious? I thought this was a free country. Why should the police want to interrogate me about anything and everything I've been doing?”
“I think it's time for me to explain,” Phil said. “We are homicide detectives, if I can use the terminology you'd be most familiar with, and we're investigating the murder of Sheila Armstrong. We have records showing some very harsh words and threats being exchanged between Sheila and Honey.”
“Oh, Good God!” Annabelle cried. “Sheila Armstrong is dead? I can't say I'm sorry. She was a real bitch to me. I wanted her dead and my prayers have been answered. What happened?” After a short pause, Annabelle continued. “I'm sorry. I can't believe I said that. It's so unlike me. I don't really want anyone dead. It was just an unfortunate turn of phrase. I hated Sheila for what she did to me, but I didn't truly wish any evil, I only wanted her to correct the damage she did. Please tell me what happened.”
“Not quite yet. First of all, we want to learn more about your grievance with her.”
“Surely you don't really consider that I was involved with whatever's happened?” Annabelle asked.
“Whatever I believe or don't believe is of absolutely no consequence here. Now please, just answer our questions,” Phil's response was firm and determined.