Suspect

by Nicholas Rhea

  ‘Balls!’ said Pollard. ‘Utter balls…there was just me and Bob…’

  ‘Balls,’ said Sykes.

  ‘Over the weeks before the Millgate raid, there had been other robberies like yours, not done by you, but done by local “volunteers”, set up by somebody who knew the timing and value of the loads coming in…for a cut of the proceeds.’

  ‘Fairy-tale stuff, Mr Pemberton. Me, Bob and Shaun was alone in this one. Mebbe we should have had help, we might have got a few thousand quid for our trouble instead of porridge. Anyway, you came about them murders and I can’t help about the guns. Ours was bought from a bloke in a pub years ago. No idea who he was or where he was from. He just got the guns for us, two guns, Mr Pemberton, one for me and one for Bob.’

  ‘Bought ours from a bloke in the pub,’ said Sykes.

  ‘All right, thanks. I appreciate your help. Now, before I leave, there’s something else I’d like to clear up, while I’m here. Did either of you actually see Newton arrive at Millgate?’

  ‘No,’ said Pollard.

  ‘No,’ said Sykes.

  ‘Did you, Roger, notice Detective Sergeant Swanson walking across the forecourt of the supermarket when the raid was under way? Heading for you?’

  ‘No, can’t say I did, Mr Pemberton. I was too busy looking for coppers with guns. There’d been shooting, you see, I heard the bangs.’

  ‘He heard the bangs,’ said Bob.

  ‘I must admit I didn’t see a lot,’ said Pollard. ‘I was concentrating on what I was doing. Watching them guards close, I was, from behind the truck. Then I saw the old bill coming and thought our number was up. I know what they do to armed robbers, so I broke my gun and tossed it aside. Then I heard a shot and saw the bloke lying there, not far away. He was close to my gun then…then I got nicked.’

  ‘He got nicked,’ echoed Sykes.

  ‘Was anybody with Newton?’ asked Pemberton.

  ‘Never saw nobody,’ responded Pollard.

  ‘Never saw nobody,’ echoed Sykes.

  ‘Roger, where were you standing when all this happened?’ asked Pemberton.

  ‘Behind the security van. Bob was at the side, the passenger side, holding up the guards. I was at the back, watching in case the driver got out…he didn’t, then all this happened. I told all this to those blokes who were trying to catch Hadley.’

  ‘We told all this to those other coppers,’ said Sykes.

  ‘So neither the police nor the guards would see you with a gun?’

  ‘Mebbe not, I dunno,’ admitted Pollard. ‘I was out of their sight for a few minutes, round the back of the van.’

  ‘He was round the back,’ beamed Sykes.

  ‘And you, Bob, you fired your gun?’

  ‘Over their heads, to empty it. We said we’d not kill in the raid, mister, use the guns for frighteners, not to kill. And we stuck to that, eh, Rog?’

  ‘We did — and we got nicked!’

  ‘We got nicked,’ said Sykes, grinning as if it had all been a bit of fun.

  ‘Did you see who shot Newton?’ asked Pemberton.

  ‘No, just heard a bang, then I got nicked. I saw him lying there…there was old bill everywhere…’

  ‘Old bill everywhere,’ said Sykes. Pemberton felt he had now gained a clear picture of events that day, and it did not look good for Hadley. But he had no wish to prolong this interview, nor did he wish to make it appear as if he was pursuing that line of enquiry.

  ‘OK, thanks for talking. Another pint each?’

  ‘Never say no to a copper buying a pint apiece, eh, Bob?’

  ‘Never say no to a copper buying a pint apiece,’ echoed Bob.

  ‘What do you reckon to those two?’ asked Pemberton on the way back to Rainesbury.

  ‘I think they were telling the truth, sir,’ said Watson. ‘Their side of things matches what we thought. I think they were amateurs setting about a raid which was bound to go wrong. And it did.’

  ‘So you believe Newton was innocent, that he was not part of the raid?’

  ‘I do, sir, yes. It matches what some of us have thought all along.’

  ‘So who tipped off the police, Sergeant? Somebody else must have known…’

  ‘I have no idea, sir, you’ll have to ask Inspector Swanson about that. He’s never told me, not face to face, but from what he’s let slip, I thought he was the one who got the anonymous call. And that’s why we were all waiting that morning.’

  ‘Sergeant, I want you to keep today’s events to yourself. I have no wish to be seen to be reopening the Millgate files nor doubting the outcome of the official enquiries.’

  ‘Understood, sir. But I’m pleased you spoke to Pollard and Sykes. So can I ask, do you think Inspector Hadley shot Newton in cold blood?’

  ‘I wish I knew, Sergeant. But right now we have three murders to solve, haven’t we?’

  Chapter Twelve

  As Watson went to park the car at Rainesbury police station, Pemberton walked across the spacious yard at the rear of the building, heading for the rear door with its security coded lock. In those final yards, his eye caught sight of the bike sheds — and there, parked beneath the motor-cycle shelter, was Hadley’s black and silver machine. There was no one about and so, not one to miss an opportunity, Pemberton went across to examine it. A Suzuki by make, it was a clean, well-kept motor cycle with gracefully shaped fairings marked with a silver design, dart-shaped. A powerful machine, probably ll00cc, it had chrome wheels glistening in the afternoon sunshine and the familiar Italian tyres… Pemberton stooped to examine the tyre tread.

  To date, none of his teams would have conducted a detailed examination of these tyres. That would follow in due course, but he did not wish to miss the opportunity for a quick peek himself. Without having the print-outs of the pattern markings found near the green tent, he could not be sure these were identical or even similar, but they certainly appeared to be a good match. The machine had spacious, rigid panniers at either side of the rear wheel and Pemberton made a mental note of its registration number, modern machines having only a rear number plate. He noticed that the plastic plate was held in position by two screws — it would be the work of a minute or less to remove that number plate and replace it with a false one. So had Hadley done that before embarking on some murderous outings?

  Walking away from the machine, Pemberton realised he would have to contrive to make a detailed comparison of those tyre treads — and there was no time like the present. Another thought struck him: Hadley had been at the conference this morning and he was still here, working on the self-same murder enquiry. This was unusual — he usually worked only half-days — and Mark began to wonder whether the fellow was improving in health and therefore working longer hours, or whether his police sense of commitment was compelling him to work a full day alongside his colleagues. Then a more ominous thought crossed Mark’s mind: was Hadley working longer hours so that he could monitor the attempts to find the triple killer or even monitor the development of the enquiry which could lead to himself? In that way, he could keep himself safe from capture…

  Thinking along those lines, Mark realised there was no better place to conceal a suspect motor cycle than the bike sheds of a police station! He found himself wondering whether Hadley was a victim of circumstance or whether he was a clever and dangerous crook, making full use of his police background and acceptability to carry out his crimes. Could that be the real Hadley? If so, he was a very dangerous man.

  Letting himself into the building by pressing the buttons in his coded sequence, Pemberton took the lift but called into the incident room before returning to his own office. He found the place a hive of activity, positively humming with vigour, and he noticed Vic Hadley hunched over a pile of statements near the HOLMES terminal.

  It would be interesting to discover why Hadley had stayed at work. First, though, Mark located Detective Inspector Larkin.

  ‘I’m back, Paul,’ he said. ‘It looks busy in here, has something happened?�
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  ‘We got an anonymous call about the murder, sir, about an hour ago. A man, ringing from a kiosk. We tried to trace the call, but we were too late — he’d gone by the time we got there.’

  ‘What was he ringing about?’

  ‘The black motor bikes, sir. He said he was in Kesterdale last Saturday night, late, with a woman. They were in a car, sir, and she was not his wife which is why he refused to give his name. He said he saw a black motor cycle pull up on the side of the road near the telephone kiosk. It was about half-past one in the morning, Sunday to be precise. In the light from the kiosk, the couple saw the man change the number plate on the bike. The witness said he had no idea what the original one was, except that the figures 1 and 6 were in the sequence. The biker put the original plate in the pannier near the rear wheel and drove off minutes later with a different plate on show. Our witness noted it down, sir…’

  ‘And?’ asked Pemberton.

  ‘It was the same number as those jobs in Langbarugh, sir.’

  ‘Why didn’t he ring us before?’ Pemberton asked.

  ‘He was watching the newspapers for something which might be connected with that bike, but he’s been away on business, so he missed the local coverage of the murder stories — the nationals only dealt with them in brief. He’d only just read about the murders and our hunt for the motor bikes. That’s when he thought his sighting might be important.’

  ‘I’ll say it is!’ breathed Pemberton. ‘So you couldn’t persuade him to come in and make a statement?’

  ‘Not a bit of it, sir. He’d told his wife he was in Scotland on business — she thought he was on his way home after a late meeting, not parked in a Yorkshire dale with his bit of fresh,’ Larkin said. ‘He rang from a kiosk, we traced it to that one in Lawrence Street, here in Rainesbury. But he’d gone by the time we arrived. We can’t identify him — his voice was calm and bore a local accent, that’s all we can say.’

  ‘The trouble with anonymous calls is that you never know if they’re genuine,’ Pemberton observed. ‘If only the fellow had come in and talked to us — we could have kept his secret from his wife…the secrets we have stored in our files! So what’s the frantic activity here?’

  ‘They’re going through the PNC printouts looking for black motor cycles with the figures 1 and 6 as part of their registration number, sir.’

  Pemberton realised that those figures did feature upon the registration plate of Hadley’s machine — its numerical sequence was 316 — but that was not sufficient evidence, on its own, to justify dramatic action like arresting him or having him charged. But if the tyre marks matched, then his movements at the time of the murders would have to be checked and verified. A thankless task for some detective if the fellow was innocent, but the clues were now beginning to add up into something very sinister even if none of the other detectives appeared to suspect Hadley.

  For Mark Pemberton, however, the passage of time and the growing number of unwelcome coincidences were combining to force him into accepting that Vic Hadley could be the avenging motor cyclist. Still reluctant to take action without some positive evidence, Pemberton knew he must soon make a decision about interviewing him. To do that, he ought to be in possession of some hard evidence, something upon which to base the foundation of an oral examination. At this stage, such evidence was lacking.

  The obvious move was to make a close check of those tyres against the imprints of the marks found near the green tent. The files in the incident room contained surplus copies of the prints of the Green Tent tyre marks; these were for publicity and for distribution around the tyre dealers and so it was not unusual for a detective to help himself to one — which Mark did. Folding it into three and stuffing it into his inner jacket pocket, he walked downstairs via the flight of steps rather than the lift and emerged in the spacious carpark. Seconds later, he was once again examining Hadley’s motor cycle; crouched beside the machine, unobserved, he held the print-out against the rear tyre. And the tread pattern was identical. This meant the motor cycle which had visited that green tent had borne the same make of tyres as the motor cycle owned by Vic Hadley. But Pemberton knew that millions of these tyres were manufactured and a visual match would not hold sway over a cynical court which was frightened to convict. He would need positive proof, and that meant taking casts of these tyres, every inch of them, and scientifically matching the result with the marks found near the green tent.

  Things like wear and tear, cuts in the rubber, the pressure of the tyres and a host of other factors would have to be compared before it could be stated without doubt that Hadley’s machine had made that trip. Nonetheless, Mark felt the time had come to inform Hadley of some of his findings. His need to use subterfuge might have been overtaken by events, although he realised that if he wanted an excuse to question Hadley, then he could use the familiar old ruse — ‘it’s for elimination purposes’. But when Mark returned to the incident room he was somewhat surprised to find Hadley waiting for him.

  ‘Sir,’ he said, ‘a word, in your office, if I may.’

  ‘Sure, come in.’ He led the large, untidy fellow into his private sanctum, indicated a chair and closed the door before taking his own seat. ‘Now, Vic, what can I do for you? I see you’ve decided to work extra hours today?’

  ‘This murder, sir, the one in our area, and those in Langbarugh, I wanted to work as hard as I could to catch the killer. There’s a lot of work to do, but I’ll not overdo it, I know my limits.’

  ‘OK, whatever suits you suits me.’ Pemberton tried to sound relaxed. ‘Is that what you wanted to see me about?’

  ‘No, it’s worse than that. These printouts from the PNC, I’m logging them into HOLMES, checking names and so on. Mr Larkin’s arranging actions for local interviews of bike owners…’

  ‘Yes,’ Mark acknowledged. ‘We need to get among them all pretty quickly, Vic, to get them eliminated. There’s quite a lot.’

  ‘Well, sir, that’s why I’m here. You see, my own name has come up, as the owner of a black bike…I got that part of the print-out with my name on. I thought I’d better come to see you, to get myself eliminated from the enquiry…’

  ‘Yes, well, that makes sense. It would have meant a team coming to visit you and quiz you in depth, as you are well aware. So, Vic, you’ve saved them a job, eh? Now this means I must ask you to explain your whereabouts on the nights of the murders, Vic. And you need to produce witnesses, independent witnesses. You know the score.’

  ‘That’s the trouble, sir, I can’t. Can’t produce witnesses, I mean I was fishing — even when old Scott was killed in his green tent, I was fishing. I go where you saw me last night, not always in exactly the same place, but somewhere along that stretch of the river. It’s common water there, for about two miles up and downstream. I mean, sir, people have seen me there, walkers, strollers, people interested in the country side…but I can’t name them, and they probably don’t know me.’

  ‘Your wife, she would say you were fishing if we asked her?’

  ‘Yes, even late at night, but that’s no alibi, is it? Besides, she’s not exactly independent, is she? What she’d say is that I was out, and that looks suspicious, because she can’t prove where I was. I love night fishing, sir, it’s marvellous. I go on the bike as far as I can, then park it and walk, I don’t go just for the angling aspect, but for the wildlife…badgers, owls, otters swimming inches from your feet…I always tell her if I’m going to be very late, especially when I fish all night. I do that now and again, fish all night.’

  ‘I can appreciate your need for solitude, Vic.’

  ‘Yes, it’s really great, you know, coming home at dawn with a bag full of fresh mushrooms for breakfast.’

  Pemberton studied the man opposite and was unsure whether to regard him as a very honest and frightened man who was desperately keen to be absolved from any suspicion, or a devious killer who had recognised the fact that he might be under surveillance or suspicion even at this stage and who was now
looking for a means of escape from the ever-closing net. Pemberton’s gut reaction was to go along with the man’s requests to see whether or not he ever slipped up in his stories — Pemberton was a great believer in the old maxim that if you give a rogue enough rope, he will eventually hang himself.

  ‘I’ll put a suggestion to you, Vic,’ he said after a few moments’ deliberation. ‘How about writing out a statement for me, using your own words, and accounting for your whereabouts at all the material times. You know the rules as well as me, you know what we look for, how important named witnesses are and so on, along with precise times, dates and places. Then, once you’ve completed it, we — me, probably — would have to question you at length, put you through the third degree to positively eliminate you. I want you eliminated, Vic, and you’ve shown great presence of mind in volunteering as you have. We would have got around to you in due course, as you know, thanks to the black bike print-out.’

  Hadley smiled through his beard. ‘Right, sir, yes. It’ll do me good, to write it all down.’

  ‘Include details of your bike, Vic, where you got it, how long you’ve had it and so on. I don’t have to tell you that we and Langbarugh police are both seeking a black-clad biker on a black machine, just like yours.’

  ‘I bought it from Fell’s in Scarborough, sir, two months ago. A Suzuki. Brand-new. They had umpteen similar ones in stock, a very popular model, they told me.’

  ‘Good, include all that sort of detail. And the tyres? You haven’t changed the tyres, have you?’