Suspect

by Nicholas Rhea

  ‘Maybe he’s going to pick up the weapon? Let’s hope he doesn’t lose us!’ grimaced Mark Pemberton.

  Having told his wife that he was going fishing and having placed the strap of his bag around his shoulders with his rod, gaff and nets upon his back, Vic Hadley left home as daylight was turning to dusk. With his long rubber waders upon his feet, where they served as protective motor-cycling gear, his leather jacket and black helmet completed his outfit. The beautiful black Suzuki sprang to life at the touch of the starter button and, with the engine as smooth as a sewing machine, he swung from his drive with all the skill of a very experienced biker.

  The well-maintained machine quickly reached the maximum speed limit — 40mph in this part of town — and Vic felt the cool evening air on his face and the wind in his ears. Even with the protection of a helmet, there remained the joy of feeling the wind about his head and face and the touch of fresh air upon his cheeks as he controlled the speed of his machine until he reached the open road. The sight of a police car at the junction with Castle Road reminded him of the obligatory speed limit and he reduced his speed to 30mph, an unconscious reaction.

  The police car emerged from the side road and tucked in behind him for a short distance before easing into the outside lane and overtaking him. It settled down in front of him, cruising at 40mph until it reached the town boundary where it accelerated slightly. Vic followed. Ahead lay the open road, with Fawneswick twenty minutes away. He opened the throttle, the bike responding immediately until he was cruising along at 60mph with the wind whistling about him and with an immense sense of freedom within. The police car continued ahead, not speeding away, apparently not going about any particular task, but enjoying a leisurely patrol along the deserted moorland road which linked Rainesbury with Fawneswick. This route was patrolled regularly by mobiles of the Road Traffic Division and thus the presence of that car did not strike Hadley as being out of the ordinary. For those who were watching him, on the other hand, it had been a very good beginning to their task.

  After a ride of some fifteen minutes, with cars both behind and ahead of him during the journey, Hadley came to a lonely moorland junction; there was an inn at this point — the Moorcock Inn — and a direction sign pointing towards the coast. That signpost said, ‘Bleawick only 3’, and it pointed along a very narrow, winding lane with high hedges which led towards the coast. Bleawick, a former Roman signalling station, was a cliff-top hamlet comprising little more than a huge hotel and some former coastguards’ cottages, now occupied by sturdy dwellers and holiday-makers. A coastal footpath ran through the hamlet and there was a large car-park for visitors who flocked here during the summer season. There was a magnificent viewpoint with climbs down the cliffs to the sandy shore below.

  Hadley turned along the narrow lane towards Bleawick. The police car, still within his sights as he had arrived at this point, continued towards Fawneswick. Now alone on this rural lane and requiring headlights due to the rapidly fading daylight, Inspector Vic Hadley accelerated towards Bleawick with a rising sense of excitement. For him, a satisfactory conclusion was near. His own enquiries had proved very fruitful: he knew that Swanson was corrupt and that he was a womaniser, an adulterer. Adultery was bad, but a corrupt police officer was the basest of creatures, the scum of the earth. Hadley now had the evidence he wanted, and he hoped he would remain calm enough to conclude tonight’s business.

  ‘Moth One. Subject has turned towards Bleawick,’ said an anonymous voice from the police car.

  ‘Ten four,’ said Control.

  Another voice said, ‘Moth Two to Control. Am behind subject, distance four hundred yards, his rear lights are in view. Now proceeding to Bleawick.’

  ‘Ten four,’ said Control. ‘Moth Two, for your information, the road terminates at Bleawick. There is a public car-park, suggest you avoid that. Exercise the utmost caution.’

  ‘Ten four,’ said Moth Two.

  Moth Two was a blue Ford Escort, some five years old, and inside were a young man and a young woman, both casually dressed in jeans and sweaters. They had all the appearances of a courting couple, but each was in fact equipped with a throat microphone in addition to the car’s own radio. When Moth Two arrived at the public car-park on the cliff-top at Bleawick, Hadley’s motor cycle was there. On its stand, it gleamed in the light of a street lamp beneath which it had been placed and they were in time to see the bulky black figure of Hadley walking towards the splendid Beacon Hotel. There was no other vehicle in that public carpark, but they drove on and parked on a patch of waste ground overlooking the sea, apparently a courting couple seeking solitude.

  Within seconds, though, the walking figure of Hadley was lost in the darkness, his black clothing making him invisible. The site had been a beacon in Roman times, and even in later years fires were lit on the cliff-top to warn ships of danger, or to provide signals for smugglers; now the lights of the hotel provided seafarers with any necessary warnings of cliffs and rocky beaches. The hotel was shown on all maritime maps of the locality. The ‘courting’ couple had now left their car for a cliff-top stroll.

  ‘Moth Two, subject entering grounds of the Beacon Hotel. Over.’

  ‘Received, Moth Two. Keep him under surveillance. Identify other persons present if possible. Over.’

  While the young male detective shadowed the sturdy figure of Hadley as he materialised in the glow of the light from the building, his partner walked among the cars already parked in the hotel grounds.

  Through her throat microphone, she listed all the registration numbers, these being recorded by Control. Each would be immediately checked on the Police National Computer. Some would surely belong to members of staff; others would be guests, residents and non-residents alike. The place was popular with diners, the restaurant being particularly well known.

  ‘Moth Two to Control,’ said the male voice. ‘Subject now in hotel grounds. He is sitting on a bench among some shrubs, almost hidden. He is alone. He is not holding any weapon. Am maintaining observation. Over.’

  ‘Ten four,’ said Control, knowing that these words were being monitored by Superintendent Pemberton at Raineswick.

  ‘What’s he doing there?’ Pemberton puzzled in his office. ‘For a man who says he never tells a lie, it’s a funny place to go fishing!’

  ‘It seems to me that he’s waiting for somebody,’ said Larkin.

  ‘Exactly. But who?’ Pemberton sounded frustrated.

  Two minutes later, the telephone rang. It was the inspector in charge of the Control Room. ‘Morton here, sir,’ he said. ‘Those cars at the Beacon. We’re putting the numbers through PNC, but one’s already of interest. It belongs to Detective Inspector Swanson, sir; it’s his private car.’

  ‘Swanson? What’s he doing there?’ asked Pemberton.

  ‘He’ll be with his bit of skirt, sir,’ said Morton with a chuckle. ‘He has a woman, you know, a bit of spare. He’s had her ages — it’s that widow of Newton, the chap Hadley shot at Millgate. I don’t think his wife knows a thing about it.’

  ‘Newton’s widow?’ cried Mark Pemberton, who then realised that some people would regard that kind of liaison as both sinful and criminal. Certainly adultery was a worse crime than hunting for birds’ eggs. And he remembered Swanson’s meeting with him, the meeting where Swanson claimed he’d seen Hadley murder Newton.

  ‘God!’ he said suddenly. ‘I wonder if Swanson was seeing her at the time of Millgate!’

  ‘Sir?’ questioned Morton.

  ‘I’m talking to myself, Inspector. But I’m going to the Beacon Hotel,’ he announced. ‘Get the firearms unit to meet me in the public car-park, urgent and secret. And tell Moth Two not to let Hadley out of his sight! He might well be intending to shoot Detective Inspector Swanson!’

  Chapter Nineteen

  It was nearly nine o’clock when Lorraine returned to the incident room from Nottingham. She was tired and hungry after the long round trip; an accident on the A1(M) had caused her to lose an hour o
r so on the return leg. The place was deserted apart from the evening’s skeleton staff although she did see a light emerging from beneath Pemberton’s office door. She tapped and walked in; she was very surprised to find Detective Inspector Larkin sitting alone among a bank of radio receiving equipment. There was no sign of Pemberton and her first request was to ask his whereabouts.

  ‘He’s out on a job,’ Larkin told her. ‘He’s rushed out, Lorraine. Top secret. I’m holding the fort at this end. You’ve not been home?’

  ‘No, I had to rush down to Nottingham without telling him or you — you weren’t around, either of you.’

  ‘It’s nice when people use their initiative, but I’m afraid he’s out of touch just now, and likely to be for some considerable time, certainly for the next few hours.’ Larkin was sympathetic. ‘It’s well past your knocking-off time, so why don’t you go home and put your feet up? Have a relaxing night.’

  ‘I think he’ll want to know what I’ve discovered, sir.’ There was an insistence in her voice which he could not ignore. ‘But what’s he got involved with now? Am I allowed to know?’

  ‘No one’s allowed to know, Lorraine, except a handful of top brass. But let me put it like this — it wouldn’t surprise me if we caught the motor cycling killer tonight.’

  ‘That’s great! I’m really pleased — but it makes my information even more important! So I must speak to Mark…er, Superintendent Pemberton, it’s about Hadley.’

  ‘Hadley?’

  ‘Well, to be honest, it’s about the Millgate supermarket incident.’

  ‘Can it wait?’ he asked. ‘Your Mr Pemberton’s in the middle of a very tricky operation.’

  ‘If Inspector Hadley’s involved in whatever’s going on out there, then Mr Pemberton must know what I’ve discovered — it’s vital!’ and she almost snapped out the words.

  He recognised her anxiety, but said, ‘If it’s all that important, Lorraine, you’d better sit down and tell me all about it, and I might be able to make contact. He’s on the road now, there’s a while before he’s due to arrive, before he’s irrevocably committed, so we’ve a few minutes in hand. Time for a coffee perhaps? For you and me? I’m parched, it must have been the salt on my fish and chips.’

  ‘Fish and chips?’ She licked her lips. ‘I’d give my right arm for some just now…’

  ‘Right, we’ve enough time for you to dash round the corner for your fish and chips. I’ll put the kettle on, then we’ll talk.’

  Larkin put on the kettle as Lorraine hurried out; less than five minutes later, she returned with her chips wrapped in newspaper. Two steaming mugs of coffee were waiting.

  She settled down to her meal, finding it odd that Larkin was using Pemberton’s office and occupying his chair.

  Larkin allowed her the luxury of enjoying a few mouthfuls before asking. ‘So what’s this important news you bring from Nottingham, Lorraine?’

  ‘You’re familiar with the Millgate supermarket incident, sir?’ she asked.

  ‘I am. Mr Pemberton made me read the file when the current series of murders began.’

  ‘Then you’ll be familiar with Inspector Hadley’s claim, sir? That Newton was carrying a shotgun?’

  ‘Yes, I am aware of that. It was a gun that no one else saw and which has never been seen since,’ he added wryly. ‘The cause of much speculation.’

  ‘Well, I was in SOCO early this afternoon and they told me they still had the cartridges recovered from the supermarket forecourt. They’d been sent back by Ballistics after the trial. There were four of them, as the report mentioned. Three from twelve-bores, and one from Hadley’s own weapon.’

  ‘So?’ asked Larkin. ‘We all know that. One of the twelve-bore cartridges was unaccounted for, wasn’t it? A throwaway, everyone thought.’

  ‘Well, I remembered the story of that time, about one of the gang firing two shots, the other firing nothing at all, and Inspector Hadley firing one shot. Three shots were fired and accounted for, sir, but four cartridge shells were recovered. This led to speculation that a fourth shot had been fired.’

  ‘Those discrepancies were considered at the time, Lorraine. The fourth shell was never satisfactorily explained. I think the conclusion was that it had nothing to do with the raid.’

  ‘Exactly, sir. But I now believe that Inspector Hadley was correct in what he saw. That’s why I took those cartridge cases to Nottingham this afternoon. I wanted them to examine the fourth one. They’d examined it before, at the time of the supermarket incident, and said it had not come from any of the guns involved in the case. More correctly, they said it had not been fired from any of the shotguns recovered at the scene.’

  ‘So what are you saying, Lorraine?’

  ‘I asked Ballistics to compare that old cartridge with those we’ve recovered from the scenes of the murders of Pearle, Scott and Hardisty.’

  He was now regarding her with interest and respect. He could guess what she was about to tell him. ‘Go on, Lorraine.’

  ‘It was fired by the same gun, sir.’

  ‘Bloody hell! Are you sure?’ he cried.

  ‘Ballistics will confirm it in writing, but I asked them to do an immediate examination. They’ve got the shells from the three current murders, and it was the work of a moment to compare that old one from the Millgate incident. The firing pin’s punch mark on the ignition cap, and the extractor claw marks are identical, sir.’

  ‘My God, Lorraine. This changes everything!’

  ‘The old cartridge is not the same make or age as those recently used, but the marks produced by the gun’s firing mechanism are the same.’

  ‘So all this means that there was another shotgun?’ breathed Larkin.

  ‘Yes, sir, that’s exactly what it does mean. And that same gun is now being used to kill again,’ stressed Lorraine. ‘And I very much doubt if Inspector Hadley will be using it. And there was another thing, sir.’

  ‘Go on, Lorraine,’ he whispered.

  ‘That list of black motor cycle owners…I don’t know whether anyone familiar with the Millgate incident ever studied it.’

  ‘No, they wouldn’t. It was given to a team to work on — they’ll be contacting all owners.’

  ‘But I read it, sir, when I was waiting around Langbarugh headquarters this morning. There’s a very significant name on it.’

  ‘You have been busy. Who is it?’

  ‘Brian Newton, sir. He can’t drive a car, but he does ride a motor bike. He bought one which is identical to Hadley’s, even with the same tyres and colouring… He got it from Sunderland, two weeks after Hadley bought his,’

  ‘Are you saying Hadley’s being framed for these crimes?’

  ‘It wouldn’t be difficult, would it?’ she put to him. ‘I think he is. And Brian Newton does have good reason for getting his revenge against Hadley.’

  Larkin thought hard. Revenge was sweet, he knew, and if Newton had been deliberately setting up Hadley, it was clear that he had worked carefully on his plans.

  Larkin closed his eyes as he tried to recreate the scene on the Millgate supermarket forecourt at the time of Newton’s death; he realised that it would be impossible for Hadley to have seized and retained that weapon, the weapon that Newton must have been carrying, the one that had disappeared from the scene.

  ‘You have a theory about all this?’ he asked Lorraine.

  ‘Yes,’ and she told him what she had earlier told Pemberton, that she believed a fifth person had been present at the scene of the Millgate supermarket raid. That person, she believed, had accompanied Newton along Acorn Alley to the point where it entered the forecourt. That person had probably been a few strides behind Newton, who was leading the way armed with a loaded sawn-off shotgun, but when Newton had literally taken two steps into the arena, he’d been shot. He’d fallen to the ground only a few strides from the exit of Acorn Alley. The gun had been blown from his grasp by the force of Hadley’s shot and it had fallen to the ground where the impact had harmlessly di
scharged one of its barrels, that shot being lost among the others being fired at the same time. Hadley had been quizzed about that but had no recollection of the gun being hurled into the air. His concentration had been on the man as he’d collapsed on the ground. But if the gun had been blasted from Newton’s hands it could quite easily have discharged a harmless shot — which could explain the phantom fourth shot.

  She went on, ‘I think the gun must have fallen close to his body, sir, on the blind side. His body must have concealed it. In the confusion that followed — and there always is confusion in a case like that — the fifth person simply reached out along the ground and dragged the gun into the alley to make off with it, leaving Newton’s car to be found by the police. That fact alone would suggest Newton alone had been involved. No one would have seen that gun; Newton’s body would have obstructed any view of an arm reaching out.’

  ‘And now you are telling me that that very same sawn-off twelve-bore was used to kill Scott, Pearle and Hardisty?’

  ‘I don’t say it, sir, Ballistics say so. They’re the experts.’

  ‘So if Inspector Hadley is not the motor cycling murderer, who is?’ asked Detective Inspector Paul Larkin.

  ‘We might know tonight, sir, might we?’ She smiled. ‘I think Mr Hadley has been slowly drawn into a trap, sir, and I’d lay bets that Brian Newton is involved.’

  ‘And I’ll have to stop our armed units from targeting the wrong man,’ he muttered. ‘I hope we’re not too late. This throws a whole new complexion on the matter…I’ll call Superintendent Pemberton immediately.’