Suspect

by Nicholas Rhea

  ‘But somebody got to him!’ commented Mark Pemberton. ‘He wasn’t as clever as he thought, eh?’

  ‘The killer never took a penny,’ Brennon went on. ‘That’s what’s so bloody puzzling. There’s no sign of a theft, no indication of fraud or dodgy dealing in cars, the bloody killer just walked in with a sawn-off shotgun and bang — Harry was dead. No reason, no words, no chance of a plea, no bargaining, nothing. It smacks of a criminal execution to me, Mark, an assassination, and if it is, it’s something new to this area. Anyway, let me have a copy of that file, there might be some interesting names in it, names we can check out.’

  ‘I’ll send it off in a few minutes by car — I’ll get our Control to arrange a rendezvous point with one of our patrol cars and one of yours.’

  Mark asked Barbara to make two photocopies of the complete file on Pearle, then send one to Langbarugh and return the original to its place for future reference. He would work from a copy.

  On Monday, Pemberton called Hadley into his office for a coffee, and referred to the murder of Harold Edwin Pearle. Hadley nodded; he had read the circular on the notice-board and told Pemberton the killing had featured in the morning papers and on local radio.

  ‘You knew him?’ Pemberton asked.

  ‘Not really.’ Hadley shook his head. ‘I arrested him once, you know, years ago, after a chase through Fawneswick. I nicked him for doing Alliker’s off-licence, but the charge wouldn’t stick. Lack of evidence.’

  ‘We have the file,’ Pemberton told him, indicating the papers on his desk. ‘I’ve dug it out for Langbarugh. I see you were the arresting officer.’

  ‘A fluke really, sir, it could have been any one of us. I can’t remember how many of us were chasing Pearle that night, but I happened to be the one who got my hand on his collar. We cornered him eventually, like a wee rat.’

  ‘A good arrest?’

  ‘Aye. Guilty as hell, he was, but we could’nae prove it.’

  ‘The money was never found, was it? He didn’t have it with him.’

  ‘He’d ditched it somewhere. He was too crafty to be caught in possession of stolen cash. He’d managed to hide it somewhere. It was never found. We kept him under surveillance for a week or two after that job, just in case he went to retrieve the loot or went on a spending spree, but he never did. He knew we were on to him, sir, he’s as slippery as an eel. Was as slippery as an eel. He won’t offend any more, will he? He’s got his just deserts, sir, he lived on crime and now he’s died by it. It’s one less villain for us to worry about. Serve him right. I have no sympathy for him or his like, no sympathy at all.’

  ‘We don’t know he was still an active criminal, Vic. He might have reformed.’

  ‘And pigs might fly, sir! His sort never change. I saw that circular and I thought, good riddance.’

  ‘Our file’s been copied for Langbarugh,’ Pemberton told him. ‘I wanted you to know. They might want words with you — they’re interested in his cronies and contacts.’

  ‘I’ll be here,’ said Inspector Hadley.

  ‘So, how’s the Muriel Brown programming coming along, Vic?’

  ‘Fine, no problems. They were a wee bit casual in those days, if you don’t mind me saying so. I get the feeling that lots of evidence was overlooked, the scene wasn’t properly examined, and the way some of those statements were taken leaves a lot to be desired. Some of the things said by witnesses were never checked out, theories and clues not followed up. Sloppy bloody police work, if you ask me.’

  ‘So we might have to reinterview some of them?’

  ‘That might be an option, sir, even after all this time — that’s if they can remember anything after such a long gap or if they’re still alive. But yes, Mr Pemberton, the work’s going well and I’m enjoying it. It is doing me good, by the way, being useful again, doing something positive. Not too demanding and there is an end product — to catch the killer. You know, sir, I’d really like to get my hands on the bastard who killed Muriel Brown.’

  ‘Perhaps you will, Vic, perhaps you will!’

  ‘That’s what I’m aiming for, sir. Feeling another collar — and having enough evidence to get him put away for a long, long time.’

  While Hadley was in his office, Mark Pemberton rang the Langbarugh incident room and spoke to Detective Inspector Ron Whiteley. He explained that the arresting officer named in the file recently delivered to the Langbarugh incident room was now working in the CID office at Rainesbury and was available for interview. Whiteley thanked him — the Alliker file had arrived and a team had been allocated that old crime as an action; they would undoubtedly be in touch with Hadley, and the other officers and witnesses named in the report.

  Whiteley added that there had been no significant developments with that murder hunt, other than confirmation that the registration plate on the offender’s getaway motor cycle was false. The actual number was allocated to a Rolls-Royce.

  Thanking Hadley, Pemberton dismissed him, then the untidy inspector returned to his work on the Muriel Brown enquiry.

  Mark’s next task, before the day’s business intruded, was to visit the Scenes of Crime Department to discuss the condition of some fingerprints found at the scene of several local burglaries. He wanted a word with Detective Sergeant Derek Thornton so rang him to ensure he was in his office and set off for a chat. When he arrived, he found Detective Inspector Philip Swanson, visiting from Fawneswick.

  ‘Morning, Phil,’ greeted Pemberton as he entered the busy office. ‘So what brings you over to Rainesbury?’

  ‘Car crime,’ said the dark-haired detective. ‘BMWs and Rovers. The MO used for nicking them on our patch is just like yours. The crimes are linked, I feel, so I’m here to examine the pics of some of your local cases.’

  ‘Let me know what transpires. It seems we have professionals at work?’

  ‘Taking cars to order, I reckon, sir,’ said Swanson. ‘Chummy from the Continent rings up, orders a new black BMW and it’s nicked, number plates changed and on board the ferry before the real owner realises its gone. Your lads have got some gen on the likely villains.’

  ‘They’re good lads, ours,’ beamed Pemberton with pride, now heading for the sergeant’s office.

  Before he reached it, however, Swanson said, ‘Sir, a minute if you’ve time. A walk around the car-park?’

  ‘Sure,’ Pemberton agreed.

  He was never totally happy in Swanson’s company — the man never seemed sincere. He never looked you in the eye, and yet he had an amazing rapport with women. It was said he could charm the pants off any woman and yet he treated them like dirt — he used them and discarded them. In Pemberton’s view, Swanson was not a very nice person. But he was a competent detective and a walk and a chat away from flapping ears suggested something confidential and something important. In the brisk coolness of that early autumn morning, with the trees shedding their leaves and the grass around the car-park looking jaded and pale, the two detectives walked away from the vehicles. In those first moments, they chatted about the weather, the state of English football and the effects of the Sheehy Report upon the police service.

  ‘So,’ said Pemberton when they were striding across the tarmac away from the vehicles, ‘what can I do for yon. Phil?’

  ‘It’s Vic Hadley, sir. They tell me he’s back at work, in your department?’

  ‘Yes, he is. He’s not full-time, it’s supposed to be therapeutic work.’

  ‘I was there, sir, at the Millgate supermarket job. He shot that man deliberately, you know that?’

  ‘I don’t know anything, Phil, other than what’s contained in the official reports. There was no evidence to suggest what you imply. So what was your role?’

  ‘I was a DS at the time, sir, teamed up with DC Watson. Dave Watson. We’d got this tip-off, from a reliable source, I might add, that the raid on the security van delivering cash to Millgate would go ahead. We’d had some preliminary gen, but this was the confirmation we needed. The operation was se
t up, using plain-clothes and uniform officers, both inside and outside the supermarket. We had armed officers with us too. I was one of those detailed to be outside. Me and Dave were in a disguised van parked on the street outside. Both of us were unarmed. A bread van, it was, looking empty. We were hidden in the back, in radio contact, and we could see into the parking area in front of the supermarket. I told all this to the enquiry, sir, and at the inquest, but nobody believed me. I know Hadley shot Newton, sir.’

  ‘He admits he shot Newton, Phil. He’s never denied that.’

  ‘I know, but he did it in cold blood, sir, that’s the point I’m making. That man should have been done for murder — he executed Newton. It was a cold-blooded assassination. I’m sorry to plague you with this after all this time and after all the enquiries into the shooting, but I was there, only feet away from him. He never gave Newton a chance to surrender, he never gave the warning — ‘

  ‘We know. He was disciplined for that,’ interrupted Pemberton.

  ‘I know, sir, but Newton was not armed. If he’d been pointing a gun at me, I’d have known about it. I’m not blind, I am alert in circumstances of that kind. I know there’s nothing I can do now, I can bang my head against a brick wall until I drop from exhaustion or brain damage, but I thought you ought to know what sort of man you’ve got in your department. He can’t tolerate a criminal getting away with a crime, sir. He’s paranoid about lawbreakers. If he lived in the Wild West, he’d be stringing up suspects from trees, lynching them without a trial, innocent or not.’

  ‘That’s a bit strong, Phil!’

  ‘Maybe, sir, but that man is a killer and I don’t care who hears me say so.’

  ‘That’s a serious allegation to make against a senior colleague, Phil.’

  ‘So what can be done, sir? I mean, I know he’s been off duty sick for months, the pressure they said it was, the stress of killing an innocent man, a bystander, a young chap with a family. Even if Newton was part of the gang, there was no need to kill him, sir. We’d got the whole lot contained. But Newton wasn’t on that job, Mr Pemberton. There was nothing to link him with that raid, sir, nothing at all. Not a shred of evidence. He was a passer-by, a chap popping into the shop to get something for his kids’ breakfast. He just turned up at the wrong time. So now that Hadley’s returned to duty, sir, what’s he going to do next, eh?’

  ‘He has been sick, a stress-related illness they say, and experts with far more knowledge and experience than you and I have said he’s fit for therapeutic work. I’ve got him programming an old crime into HOLMES. The Muriel Brown case.’

  ‘Well, if he finds out who killed Muriel Brown, he’s good enough to go out and knock him off, sir, that’s if the courts won’t prosecute.’

  ‘I’ll pretend I never heard that comment, Phil.’ Pemberton was shocked by the vehemence of the detective inspector’s remark.

  ‘Somebody has to say it, sir. You’ll never get me to work alongside him, that’s for sure.’

  Pemberton halted and regarded his colleague.

  ‘Phil,’ he said, ‘I respect your opinions, you’re a detective with a vast amount of experience, but you know, and I know, that we can’t resurrect that old case. There’s been a court case, an inquest and an official enquiry with emphasis on Newton’s death and Hadley’s role in it. He’s been exonerated, Phil. It’s all over.’

  ‘But you’ve not looked into the case, sir? In depth? Not even out of interest?’

  ‘I looked at the file when I knew that Hadley was going to join me. I wanted to refresh my memories of the Millgate raid, and I’ll be straight with you. I have no desire to challenge the outcome of the official investigations.’

  ‘Can I ask you to get the file out, go through it and ask people who were there, like me, what they thought of it all? Then make your judgement.’

  Pemberton, aware of the depth of Swanson’s concern, said, ‘All right, Phil. I’ll have a closer look at the case. But I’ll do it out of interest only, I’m not going to reopen it, you know that’s impossible.’

  ‘That’s all I ask, sir. I’d appreciate another chat when you’ve made your assessment.’

  And so Swanson and Pemberton parted and entered the building, Swanson going to the studio section to examine the photographs which were awaiting him, while Pemberton went to Sergeant Thornton’s door, knocked and was admitted. But Pemberton was wondering why Swanson continued to air his views on the Millgate supermarket case.

  When Pemberton returned home that evening, Lorraine had prepared a meal. Detective Constable Lorraine Cashmore now lived with Pemberton, an arrangement not entirely acceptable to the hierarchy of the force due partially to the wide difference in their ranks. A detective constable sleeping with her boss was not considered conducive to good personnel management, but as both Pemberton and Lorraine were able to separate their work relationship from their domestic set-up, the arrangement was tolerated, albeit never with open or official approval.

  When Pemberton walked in, he could smell the herbs, celery and mushrooms of her beef crumble, rich with Worcester sauce and flavouring, and covered with a baked topping of oats, wholemeal flour, butter and grated Cheddar cheese all flavoured with mixed herbs. They kissed, then he went to the bedroom to change into something casual while she poured a malt whisky for him and a dry Martini and tonic for herself. Meanwhile, Mark opened a bottle of Bordeaux in readiness for the meal. Over their aperitifs, they chatted about the day’s events, Lorraine highlighting her own investigation into a pedophile ring while Pemberton gave her an appraisal of his own supervisory role that day. It was a chance to unwind, to discuss the minutiae of the office within the privacy of their home, and, for Pemberton, to chat about work in an informal atmosphere. In the confines of the office, they adopted a formal approach to one another, with Lorraine even calling him ‘sir’ as the others did — but not at home. Here, they were lovers.

  ‘Lorraine,’ he said, draining his whisky, ‘what’s the general feeling about Hadley?’

  She smiled. ‘Some feel sorry for him,’ she said. ‘They know he went through a rough time, but he doesn’t say much, does he? Some of the lads have invited him out for a drink, but he won’t go along with them.’

  ‘And the others?’ he smiled. ‘Those who are not sorry for him? How do they feel?’

  ‘There’s a bit of unease in the office, Mark.’ She had to be honest with him.

  ‘Unease? What sort of unease?’

  ‘There’s a feeling that Hadley shot Newton on purpose — an excuse to be rid of a villain, as one detective said. Inspector Swanson resurrected the arguments when he called in. And Hadley is well known for his tough attitude towards wrong-doers, Mark; he never gives an inch. If a teenage joyrider gets killed in a stolen car, Hadley reckons it saves the courts a job and reduces the cost to the taxpayer. Why do you ask?’

  ‘It’s something that Swanson said to me today.’ He explained about his chat with the detective inspector. ‘He could be stirring things up for obscure personal reasons, but I do get the impression there’s a lot of submerged feeling, antagonism really, towards Hadley — which could explain why he doesn’t want to socialise with his colleagues.’

  ‘He has been very sick,’ she said. ‘If I’d been through what he’s been through, I don’t think I’d want to socialise after work.’

  ‘What’s the feeling about his response in the Millgate supermarket shooting?’

  ‘Mixed,’ she said. ‘Some say he should not have fired his gun even if Swanson was threatened, others say he did a service to the force, saving Swanson’s life. It seems odd that Swanson is so much against Vic Hadley, Mark, it doesn’t add up, but I don’t know the ins and outs of it all, I’ve not read the file.’

  ‘I must confess I don’t like Swanson,’ admitted Mark, draining his glass. ‘I think he’s very devious, I wouldn’t trust him with my granny or with my wallet. Even so, I think much of the feeling against Hadley is based on gossip and innuendo, and on how the papers interpret
ed events in the heat of the moment. I think I’d better refresh my memory of that day. I’d be interested to see precisely what Swanson said at the time.’

  ‘I hope you’re not going to get involved in something that doesn’t concern you, Mark Pemberton!’ She rose from her chair. ‘That incident is over, Mark. Finished. Concluded. Come along, it’s time to eat; time to forget you’re a detective.’

  And obediently, he followed her into the dining-room.

  Chapter Four

  The Millgate supermarket file was very comprehensive. It comprised the original statements, crime reports and SOCO accounts of the investigation of the scene, plus the deliberations of the inquest, the trial and the subsequent enquiry by Staplefordshire Constabulary. It was a mammoth document, and, in the security of his own home, Pemberton allowed Lorraine to examine it at her leisure. Had she been in the office, her rank of detective constable would have meant she was not allowed access to the more confidential of these pages, but as the lover and companion of Detective Superintendent Mark Pemberton, she was granted this privilege. And she would not abuse it.

  Mark allowed her several evenings during the week to read it because he valued her opinion; from time to time in some complex cases, her feminine intuition had highlighted factors which he might have missed, and he hoped that her perspicacity would reveal more than the official scrutiny had uncovered.

  ‘So what do you think?’ Mark asked when she had completed her task.

  ‘I’m not quite sure,’ Lorraine admitted. ‘Even now, no one’s sure whether Inspector Hadley murdered Newton or not. Hadley is the only one to state that Newton was carrying a gun. No one else saw Newton arrive on the scene; no one can say whether he was armed or not, not even Swanson. Hadley shot him, yes, we know that. He did so to save Swanson’s life. The official enquiries accepted Hadley’s version of events. Hadley has never denied killing Newton but killing is not necessarily murder. And no one has proved that Hadley acted outside the law.’