At this stage of the day, around 5.30pm, the teams of detectives were making their way back to the incident room from the towns and villages in which they had been making their enquiries. Armed with files full of handwritten statements, they had made notes of any highlights, any potential breakthroughs, any doubtful facts, and these would be aired at tomorrow’s morning conference. A lot of the gathered information would be of no value, but all would be stored in the files and programmed into HOLMES. Like so many murder investigations, there was an inordinate amount of information which appeared to be of no practical value. Every snippet was filed, however, in the knowledge that the tiniest of clues could hold the key to the solution.
Most of the staff of the incident room drifted home after six o’clock, those who needed to work overtime being allowed to do so if it was critical to the enquiry, and at six the night shift appeared. This was a skeleton staff who answered the telephones and who undertook whatever non-urgent chores they were given. Before leaving, Pemberton went over to Hadley who was closing his files and asked, ‘Vic, any success? Got your statement done?’
‘Yes, sir, I think everything’s there. It’s in the system now, ready for HOLMES and everything else. It’s as truthful and complete as I can make it. I just hope our lads can clear me.’
‘We’ll give it a damned good try,’ smiled Pemberton. ‘Are you knocking off now?’
‘Yes, been pretty shattering really. I’m ready for home!’
‘Me too. It’s not been a normal day’s work by any standards,’ sympathised Pemberton. ‘But a useful one. You won’t be fishing tonight?’
‘No. Jean’s expecting me in for our evening meal at six; I’ll have a wee dram of the best, then put my slippers on and crash out in front of the telly.’
‘You do realise’, Pemberton decided to remind him, ‘that after our chat this afternoon, you’ll be getting visits from some of our teams, and so will Jean. It’ll be very traumatic — we’ll be seeking witnesses, demanding proof of your whereabouts and so on. You know that it won’t be easy, so I think she ought to know what’s in store.’
‘Sure, sir. Aye, I was going to tell her.’
‘Fine, well, have a good evening’s rest, and we’ll see you tomorrow?’ It was a question more than a statement.
‘Aye, usual time. Eight thirty. I’ll be there.’
As Hadley walked out, Pemberton strolled around the busy room seeking Lorraine. But she was not there.
‘Anyone seen DC Cashmore?’ he asked of anyone who might deign to reply.
‘She went over to Langbarugh, sir, with a copy of those black motor cycle printouts. They said it was quicker to get a copy of ours than wait for their computer to make its searches, there’s half a day’s printing there. Too long to fax as well, pages and pages there were. She said to tell you she’d be back by about six thirty.’
‘Right, thanks. Well, I’m off. Thanks for today’s efforts, everyone.’
And he left for home.
Being first into their shared home, Mark set about cooking the evening meal for himself and Lorraine. He decided on a luscious steak grilled to juicy perfection with tomatoes and mushrooms. A simple dish, but exquisite when done properly. It would be followed by Caribbean bananas and cheese and biscuits. He whistled as he worked in the kitchen, enjoying the chore of cooking for someone else, and decided on a pleasing Bordeaux to accompany the meal. He opened the bottle now, a 1986 Camensac St Laurent, allowing it to breathe before consumption.
The smell of the cooking dish began to permeate the kitchen and then, with Lorraine not being back, he settled down with a malt whisky and The Times crossword as the meal simmered in the oven.
Then the telephone rang.
‘Mark,’ boomed the familiar Irish tones of Barry Brennon from Langbarugh. ‘Not disturbing you at dinner, I hope?’
‘Not yet, Barry, I’m in the middle of a beautiful malt from Scotland…’
‘You should try the morning dew from the Emerald Isle,’ laughed Brennon. ‘I’d back it any day against the Scots drams. But I won’t keep you long. I rang your office, but they said you’d gone home. That lass of yours, Lorraine, she brought over the motor bike list, saved us hours of work on the PNC and yards of paper too, I’ll be bound.’
‘Nice to be of service, Barry,’ said Pemberton.
‘I’m sorry to ring like this, but it’s that Hadley fellow of yours. Your lady detective…’
‘Lorraine.’
‘Yes, Lorraine, well, she said that he’s an inspector in your force, in your office in fact, and that he’s come forward, asking to be eliminated.’
‘Yes, that’s true,’ and Pemberton provided his friend and colleague with a brief outline of Hadley’s recent history and the reason for his presence in the incident room.
‘We’ve been trying to keep an eye on that fellow,’ said Brennon. ‘I’ve been quizzing that girl of yours…’
‘Lorraine.’
‘Yes, that’s the one. Lorraine. Well, she told me how he’d come forward when he saw his bike number come up on the PNC print-out, but, you see, we’ve already been trying to keep tabs on him—’
‘Without keeping me informed?’ snapped Pemberton. ‘Why do that?’
‘Well, we knew he was a police officer and we knew he was working with you, so we couldn’t tell you, could we? Somebody in your department might have warned him — you know what it’s like, Mark, investigating police officers. Secrecy and all that. Or the lack of it. I had no choice, I had to keep mum about it.’
‘Thanks for trusting me so well, Barry!’ Pemberton was not pleased about this. ‘But why have you been tailing Hadley?’
‘His bike was seen in Turnerville the day Hardisty was shot,’ said Brennon ominously. ‘It was bearing its correct number plate. The description of the rider fits Hadley — and also fits the description of the man who shot Hardisty outside the King’s Head, by which time the bike had false plates. So how could we tell you that without him getting to know? We’ve had tails on him for a few days. We knew about the Millgate supermarket shooting too, you know. Hadley is our No. 1 suspect, Mark, which is why I’m ringing you now, at home, on a secure line. I would have told you in due course, when we’d got a bit more information into our system, but with Hadley pushing the whole thing forward, I thought you ought to know.’
‘We need to have a meeting, Barry, along with my Detective Inspector Paul Larkin whom I’ve just appointed to the Hadley action.’
‘Tonight, then?’ suggested Brennon.
‘Tonight? Why not,’ said Pemberton, eyeing the opened bottle of wine. ‘How about coming to my place? I’ve got some sirloin and a few bottles of good wine, there’s enough for us all. I know you can be here within the hour…’
‘And that girl of yours will be home by seven,’ he said. ‘I’ll arrive about half-past, to give you time to prepare. Lorraine asked me to tell you, she’ll be a little bit late, through talking to me, it was. She’s a lovely woman, Mark my old friend, you lucky sod…’
‘See you then,’ said Pemberton with a sinking heart. After the day’s activities, he wanted, above all else, to be alone with Lorraine.
‘I’ll be there,’ said Brennon. ‘And I’ll bring some photographs we’ve taken of your Inspector Hadley.’
‘Photographs?’ cried Mark Pemberton.
But the line was already dead. Listlessly, Mark went to ring Paul Larkin, and then set about rearranging his routine to cope with the impromptu supper conference.
Chapter Fourteen
Lorraine had returned before Pemberton’s guests arrived and apologised for prompting the sudden meeting.
Smiling, Pemberton kissed her and said, ‘You were perfectly right in what you did, Lorraine. There’ll be other times when we can be alone…I’ve done most of the work, the table’s laid, the vegetables are done…’
‘Give me time for a wash and a change, and I’ll finish off,’ she smiled.
Detective Inspector Larkin was next; he had wa
lked and bore a bottle of Mantonico di Bianco, a dessert wine. He and Pemberton were sampling a beautiful Glecoyne malt when Detective Superintendent Barry Brennon knocked on the door. He looked rather too small to be a policeman, but his stature was deceptive. Standing at five feet ten inches, he looked around four inches smaller, but no one quite knew why. As a young man, people said he was not tall enough to join the police — and even now many said he did not have that commanding presence that one expects, or used to expect, from British policemen. Well-built, he had a round cheerful pink face with rimless spectacles and a thin thatch of light brown hair, noticeably absent on top. With a ready smile for everyone, his Irish humour was infectious but in spite of his happy-go-lucky image, he was a skilled and tough detective. Some villains who had thought he was a soft touch had learned the contrary to their cost. He produced a bottle of claret and a bunch of flowers for Lorraine, apologising profusely for arriving in this way for a business chat on what should have been a social occasion.
He carried a black briefcase too, an indication that work lay ahead.
‘I would not have come, but it is urgent, it is important, and it is highly confidential, much too delicate to discuss in an office. I needn’t tell you that walls have ears,’ he said.
Mark assured him he was welcome — which was true; Barry was such good company. His first action was to plant a kiss on Lorraine’s lips, saying, ‘Now I could never get away with that at the office, could I?’
‘Would I complain, sir?’ she smiled.
‘No sirs here — this is your house, here I am Barry, please.’
He refused a whisky aperitif because he had to drive home afterwards but did accept a tomato juice. Before eating, they all chatted and joked, the two superintendents reminiscing about their lawless days at the police training centre and recalling jokes they had played upon their sergeant-instructors, such as flying policewomen’s knickers from the flagpole on passing-out day and somehow managing to get a car on to the middle of the parade ground in spite of the trees and flights of steps which surrounded the square. Larkin and Lorraine listened to their banter, finding it difficult to believe that these two senior police officers had been such mischievous trainees.
The meal, casually presented but beautifully cooked thanks to Lorraine’s intervention, was eaten without any chatter about murders and police work, and then, as they reached the cheese, biscuits and coffee stage, Lorraine said, ‘You take your coffees into the lounge. I’ll do the washing up.’
‘I thought you might want to be part of this discussion?’ Pemberton said. ‘We have no secrets from you.’
‘Mark, if this conference is too confidential for the office, it’s far too confidential for a detective constable to hear. No, it’s better I do the clearing up, then I can’t reveal anything that I shouldn’t know about.’
‘You have a very wise young lady here, Mark,’ smiled Brennon as Lorraine went about her work. Taking their coffees into the lounge, Mark offered his colleagues a brandy, which each accepted. Brennon asked for a very small one and finally they settled in the comfort of the lounge as Brennon opened his briefcase. He lifted out an album of black-and-white half-plate size photographs, the front of which bore a red sticker marked ‘Secret’, and passed them to Mark.
‘Before I begin, Mark, take a look at these. Taken by our surveillance team, over the last few days. The dates are on the reverse.’
Several depicted a motor cycle, some with a rider sitting astride while the machine was parked, and some showing the motor cycle parked with no rider in sight. On most of the photographs, the background was, in Pemberton’s view, insignificant, generally being street scenes or car-parks, but two were different. One showed the motor cycle parked outside Canter’s Café without a rider near it, and another showed it parked outside the King’s Head at Turnerville, this time with a figure astride it. The rider was stocky, male if the appearance could be relied upon, and clad in black leathers. The figure sported a crash helmet, also black, with the visor lowered.
Pemberton noted that the registration number on the rear of the motor cycle was the same as Hadley’s. He turned over the print to read the date — it was the day that Hardisty was murdered, but the time was much earlier. Hardisty had been shot at 8.00pm while apparently awaiting a drugs customer, but this photograph had been taken at 5.00pm.
‘That’s the crucial photograph, Mark.’ Brennon sipped at his tiny brandy. ‘It puts Hadley at the murder scene, even if it was several hours before the crime was committed. Now, those other photographs — they were taken in Turnerville the same day, but later. The times are all on the reverse.’
‘What are you suggesting, Barry?’ Mark asked.
‘I’m not suggesting anything, Mark. What I am saying is that a man answering Hadley’s description was in Turnerville on the day of the murder, that he was seen by police and photographed by them outside the inn in question, and afterwards, he was spotted in other parts of the town, just passing time. The accompanying statement by the police photographer says that the man went into that café just after seven and emerged just after seven thirty. He appeared to be passing time there, Mark. We couldn’t get a picture of the fellow inside the café without his helmet on because he was sitting out of our photographer’s sight.’
‘Are you saying this is Hadley?’ Mark put the direct question.
‘Who else could it be?’ countered Brennon.
‘Someone using his bike?’
‘It’s possible,’ Brennon agreed in his rich brogue. ‘But, Mark, we know it was him. How did you think we were able to get those pictures?’
‘That was my next question, Barry. A tip-off?’
‘Of sorts.’
‘But’, cried Mark, ‘who would want to tip off Langbarugh police about a sick police inspector motor cycling in their patch?’
‘A good question, Mark. Yes, we got a tip-off, but not about him visiting that area. After the first murder, Pearle that is, one of our patrol constables noted the bike stooging about the town, doing nothing in particular. He wasn’t able to stop the bike and quiz the rider, but he did note the number. Remember we were looking for a black motor bike in connection with the Pearle shooting — and he had found one. He passed the details to the murder room, simply because the bike had been seen hanging around town, apparently not going anywhere in particular. We checked the number and turned up Hadley’s name — not realising at that time, I might add, that he was a police officer, let alone that he was working with you. We put a team on to him, with orders not to quiz him or let him know he was being tailed. We wanted to find out who this guy was, what he was doing on our patch and whether he could be linked to the murder — and imagine our surprise when we discovered he was riding that machine into your police station yard. Then, of course, we discovered he was an inspector — and later, we found out he had a dubious record of shooting a civilian in questionable circumstances, and so we concentrated a lot of energy on him. On the day of the Hardisty murder, Hadley did ride his motor bike from his home into Turnerville — we were waiting, we managed to get these pictures. Since identifying him, we have kept this news secret — secret from you because we had to consider that if Hadley was guilty of murder, then he might have an accomplice working with him, in your department. We needed to be sure of our facts before questioning him about the murders — both of them. He has not been questioned yet, by the way.’
‘Barry, if he was being tailed and photographed like this, why didn’t you get a picture of him right outside the pub at the material time? You might even have prevented a murder.’
‘He lost us, Mark. I’m not sure whether it was deliberate or not. After half-seven, he accelerated through the suburbs — he seemed to know his way around the back streets, short cuts and how to avoid cul-de-sacs. The result was that he lost the tail we’d put on him.’
‘Could he have known he was being tailed?’ asked Larkin.
‘It’s always possible, Paul, but our men felt not. They were
pretty confident he hadn’t spotted them.’
‘So are you saying he returned to the King’s Head and shot Hardisty?’ Mark pressed his friend.
‘I’m saying that a thick-set man riding a black motor cycle with similarities to the one owned by Hadley arrived outside the King’s Head and shot Hardisty,’ Brennon said. ‘You must admit it all looks very sinister, very sinister indeed.’
‘If what you are saying is true, Barry, your men slipped up. If this fellow was hanging around waiting to despatch Hardisty, the gun would have been in one of his panniers, surely? You could have caught the bastard red-handed, we’d have had the necessary evidence, he could have been arrested.’
‘That’s one of the problems, Mark. We couldn’t search his leathers without revealing ourselves and our purpose, but there was no gun in the panniers. Our men managed to search them while the bike was left in one of the car-parks — making sure Hadley was far enough away not to see them do it. If he was the killer, he might have hidden the gun somewhere, going to retrieve it at the very last minute. He had time to do that in the half-hour after leaving the café.’
‘Taking care not to have the gun in his possession in case he was stopped?’ suggested Larkin.
‘That’s all very feasible,’ agreed Brennon. ‘Now, if Hadley is the killer, he will know every trick in the book — which is why we have not yet interviewed him. With his experience, we’ll have to have every scrap of evidence to hand before we can nail him. We can’t risk him getting away with it on a technicality or through lack of evidence.’
‘If he is our killer, Barry, he could kill again,’ Pemberton reminded them.
‘We have him under surveillance, Mark. I want you to know that — which is another reason for this visit. Not twenty-four hours a day, but if he goes out to kill somebody, we’ll be there to stop him.’
Suspect Page 16